Love Reign O'er News
by gravewriter71
Summary: Book 1 of the Newsman Trilogy. The Muppet Newsman is used to things falling on him. He never expected one of them to be love. NewsmanXOC. Newsie meets a Gypsy girl who adores him; but though his love life improves, his News Flash curse seems to be getting worse! Muppet hijinks aplenty with the whole cast. Orig. published on Muppet Central.
1. Chapter 1

She first made herself known to him the night the piano fell on him…for the fourth time.

The last thing the Newsman remembered was running into the Muppet News studio, a rip-and-read sheet of news copy hot off the Muppet newsline in his hand, and announcing "Here is a Muppet News Flash" as he always did. He didn't even remember what the report had been. When he came to, in the green room downstairs, he felt something cold on his head, and a great deal of pain, and groaned.

"I'm really sorry," someone said. He didn't recognize the voice: feminine, alto range, soft and apologetic. He tried squinting up, but discovered his glasses were missing. The cold thing shifted on his head. Gingerly reaching up to touch it, he found a cold compress…and slender fingers. Both of them started back at the contact.

"What hit me?" the Newsman muttered. He could tell from extensive prior experience that trying to sit up would not be a good idea just yet.

"A baby grand," whomever it was responded.

"Figures. You'd think they wouldn't be so quiet…I never hear them coming," the Newsman complained, wincing. "Ow."

"I'm really sorry. Hang on…I'll go find you some aspirin," said the sympathetic voice. "Here…you might want to keep holding this on." Gentle fingers grasped his, bringing his left hand up to his hairline, where the compress was no doubt helping to prevent a sizeable bump. The Newsman pressed it carefully to his head, and through blurred eyes saw a flurry of movement off to the side. He heard footsteps moving away, and tried to remain still. Hopefully there wouldn't be any more News Flashes tonight.

He waited there for some time, off and on distantly hearing applause or laughter or music, the grinding sounds of scenery being shifted over the boards upstairs, and finally the ending theme music. Puzzled, the Newsman peered closely around him for his glasses, but didn't find them. He reached out to stop a small green blur moving past. "Excuse me…have you seen my glasses?"

Robin, Kermit's nephew, squeaked back at him, "Sorry, I think the piano crushed them. Do you want me to see if I can find the pieces?"

The Newsman sighed. "No, I have spares. That happens a lot." Before Robin could hop off, the Newsman added, "Did you see the lady who was back here a few minutes ago?"

"You mean Miss Piggy?"

"No, I said a lady!"

"Excuse moi?" Piggy's voice sounded from the stairs behind him. The Newsman cringed, and Robin hurried away. _"What_ was that, concussion-brain?"

"Nothing, nothing," the Newsman quickly mumbled. He saw a large pink blur as Piggy, sniffing contemptuously, came downstairs and breezed past, heading for the theatre kitchen. He heard her bellowing for service. His head still pounded, but he found by moving…very…slowly he could at least sit upright on the beat-up couch. Shortly more Muppets came down, talking loudly enough to make the Newsman wince. No one asked how he was, everyone by now accustomed to things falling on him. He sat there, still holding the compress against his battered head, until Scooter happened to pass close enough for him to recognize the green jacket the boy always wore. "Scooter," the Newsman said.

"Yeah?"

"Did you see anyone else back here tonight?"

"Well, no…not unless you count the penguin infestation."

"Penguin infest…never mind," the Newsman sighed. The last thing he needed was penguins dropping on him. They'd probably steal his cold compress. Could the voice he heard have been a penguin? Did penguins even have gentle fingers?

Maybe he'd imagined the entire thing. After all, no one had ever helped him before when something squashed him or hit him or blew him up. Maybe Piggy was right, and he was concussed. That must be it. Tired of the happy chatter around him, the Newsman rose carefully and walked to the broom closet which also served as his dressing-room, only to find that Beauregard had moved his box of spare glasses again. Sighing, he went to find the clueless janitor.

The next night, Gonzo was coaching the chickens in a Rockettes-style line dance out on the loading dock, having been kicked out of the backstage area by a frazzled Kermit, when someone in a long tan trenchcoat slunk past. Distracted, Gonzo turned to look, his arms still upraised, and the chickens tried to follow his direction. Angry clucking and a tangled flurry of wings ensued. "Sorry, girls; take five," Gonzo said, then approached the stranger, who was reaching for the backstage door handle. "Can I help you?"

The mysterious figure started back, quickly pulling a fedora down and holding the collar of the coat up high so Gonzo couldn't see a face. "Uhmmm…telegram for the stage manager?" came a muffled voice.

"Oh, okay. I think everyone else is busy. I can take that if you want," Gonzo offered, holding a hand up. However, the stranger hesitated.

"Actually, it's very important. I have to deliver it myself," the voice said from within the cocoon of coat and hat.

"Oh…I'm sorry, but Kermit doesn't allow anyone backstage during a performance who isn't part of the theatre," Gonzo said. "Really, I can deliver it for you, it's no trouble!"

Still the figure hesitated. Suddenly the door flew open; Fozzie ran out, carrying the back end of a fire hose. "Gangwaaaaaaay!"

"What is it? What happened?" Gonzo cried. The chickens scattered as Fozzie darted to and fro frantically looking for the nearest fire hydrant.

"The Newsman's microphone electrocuted him and the stage is on fire! Gonzo, get some water, quick!" Fozzie yelled. Camilla was jumping up and down on the hydrant just below the loading dock, clucking loudly, and finally Fozzie saw it and hooked up the hose. Gonzo ran into the theatre behind him. Kermit tried to stop Fozzie; he'd already sent Scooter running onstage with a fire extinguisher.

"Fozzie, wait! Fozzie, no! You don't use water on an electrical –"

BOOM!

"…Fire," Kermit finished lamely. Gonzo stared wideyed, the chickens clucking agitatedly around him, as a badly singed Fozzie came reeling back. Kermit sighed, shaking his head, and he and Gonzo patted Fozzie's fur to smother the remaining tiny embers lodged in it. "Okay, next act – get the set onstage for Pigs in Space!" Kermit yelled, and everyone dodged around each other in the crowded wings. Order was restored in the audience, and the show went on.

The Newsman blinked groggily back into consciousness in a lawn chair with cool air blowing over his face. Soot covered his hands, his face, the front of his jacket and his glasses. He started to take out a handkerchief to clean the lenses when he spotted something coming at him, and flinched. "It's okay, it's okay, hold still and close your eyes," a soft voice said.

"What?" the Newsman said, confused, but someone removed his glasses and suddenly a large wet washcloth covered his face. He was about to protest when he realized someone was actually gently cleaning the soot off him. "Oh…thank you," he muttered, pleasantly surprised. "Ow…"

"Sorry. I know that must be very tender. Just hold still and keep your eyes shut."

He sat motionless, feeling a fluffy towel pat him dry, and then something wet and smelling of aloe was draped over his entire face. "This has burn cream in it. Just let that soak in. I'm cleaning your glasses now." The Newsman heard soft movements in front of him.

No one had ever been this considerate to him. "Thank you," he mumbled around the lotion-infused cloth. It occurred to him suddenly that maybe it _wasn't_ a consideration; what if he was being set up for something to smack him while he couldn't see? Even a simple pie in the face, on top of the burn, would hurt like blazes. He listened carefully, but heard nothing. Alarmed, he stripped off the cloth, darting fearful glances all around, but saw nothing. No one was there. Looking down, he found his clean, shiny glasses sitting atop a small jar of burn cream. He picked them up, bewildered. Gonzo stuck his head out the back door, startling him.

"There you are! Hey, no time for lounging around! A news feed just came in over the wire!" Gonzo said, beckoning him.

"Coming," the Newsman said, getting up, trying unsuccessfully to brush the soot off his ruined jacket. Then his gaze fell on a clean jacket draped over the back of the lawn chair. He held it up, looking from it to his burned clothing, then at the cloth with the soothing cream still in his other hand.

Kermit popped out for an instant. "Newsman! Onstage! Now!"

Shaking off his confusion, the Newsman tossed his ruined jacket on the chair, shrugging into the fresh one as he ran. "Coming, coming!" He tried to pause just offstage, asking quickly, "Did anyone see someone out back just now?"

"All I saw was our Newsman taking time for a facial! Now get out there!" Kermit said, frustrated, shoving the news report into the Newsman's hand.

As usual, he began before he reached his desk: "This is a Muppet News Flash!...The water department has reported a number of water lines ruptured in the area!" he read, wishing once, just once, he could _research_ a story instead of having to read cold copy… "Water officials say they'll have the broken lines repaired as soon as possible, but as a precaution, the following businesses are being asked to turn off their water temporarily: the First Sharking and Loan Bank; the law firm of Dewey, Suem, and Howe; and the Muppet Theatre."

A roaring sound made him look up, just as a surging wave of water already carrying a few ducks and fish along in it slammed into him from stage left. Gurgling helplessly, the Newsman was washed through the backstage area and out the exit. The water deposited him on the loading dock again. The fish flopped away, grousing about suddenly being on land; the ducks waddled off, shaking their feathers dry with happy quacks. The Newsman picked himself up, grumbling, "Well, at least it wasn't water first, then electrocution." When he stood, trying to wring out the hem of his jacket, he suddenly noticed the lawn chair still standing on the platform. The dry fluffy towel had been draped over the back of it, out of the path of the water. Gratefully he wrapped it around himself, shivering, and looked around. Who was his benefactor? How did she – he was positive now the owner of the voice was female – know he was going to be soaked?

"Hello?" he called uncertainly. Absolutely no one answered.

The rest of the show continued inside, but out here he heard only a cricket and distant traffic sounds. He was alone.

A week went by; on those nights when no news came over the Muppet newswire and the Newsman simply hung around backstage or in the green room dining area downstairs, he kept a sharp eye out for any strangers, but other than the guest stars he never saw anyone odd. Except Lew Zealand once, but Lew, the Newsman knew, was always odd. However, on the night when a report about a locust swarm left him with barely a stitch of clothing left and bugs in his hair and he ran offstage screaming in terror, he found a long plaid bathrobe and a spray-can of rose-scented pest repellent waiting for him just downstairs. (It did attract some butterflies for a while, but better pretty bugs than locusts.) The night an unbelievable story concerning an increase in the sightings of land-sharks ended with him fleeing the stage, a fin cruising along the floor in pursuit, he nearly tripped over a harpoon, and by using it was able to fight the predator off. And when a report on a typhoon in Hawaii destroying what had been a bumper crop of native fruits resulted in large pineapples raining down on his head, he wearily trudged downstairs to find a large daiquiri, complete with a pineapple garnish and a frilly little umbrella sticking out of it, which no one could recall having seen just seconds previously. The paper umbrella was pink and had _Newsman_ written on it.

"Excuse me, Kermit," he interrupted his boss one evening before the show. "Do you think we could have some security cameras installed?"

"Why? Do you want to catch on tape the mysterious falling objects?" Kermit asked, making the Newsman scowl at him. "Look, Newsman, I'm just as stumped as you are. I have no idea how any of that stuff gets in here."

"No, you see, I'm –"

"Look, you can have cameras when Statler and Waldorf will their fortunes to the theatre. Now if you'll excuse me –"

"Why would those two will us their fortunes? They hate us," the Newsman said, frowning in confusion.

"Now you're getting it," Kermit nodded at him, then dashed off. "Beauregard! Where are you taking that prop? The Cheese Shop sketch isn't until after the opening number…!"

Giving up, the Newsman went downstairs to find someplace out of the way to wait, and to watch for any hint of his mysterious admirer.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam the Eagle turned away from the stage, depressed. Just when, for one brief, shining moment, he had dared to hope for some tiny smidgen of actual _culture_ on this freakshow, Rowlf had shifted from the "Toccata and fugue" into something the horrified eagle recognized as some of that terrible "boogie-woogie" music, complete with the dancing accompaniment of a bunch of sheep. "That," Sam pronounced to Scooter, "was _hideous._ Never, never have I witnessed such a mangling of the acclaimed Mozart! And those sheep dancing that awful swing!"

"Yeah, but at least with every low swing they polished the stage floor!" Scooter pointed out, hurrying off. Disgusted, Sam moved out of the way as the baa-ing, chattering sheep came offstage. He thought he saw a flicker of movement over in the shadows.

"Hello? H-hello? Is someone there?" Sam called, but received no reply. Warily he moved closer, his keen eyes searching the dark areas of the backstage, where crates and coiled ropes lay piled in terrible disorder. "Someone should inform OSHA," Sam muttered to himself. "Those ropes could become a tripping hazard." Again, he thought he saw something move, just at the corner of his right eye, and quickly turned…to find nothing but the dark hallway leading to prop storage and the stairs to the basement. "Hello? Anyone?" Sam asked, once again hearing no response of any kind. Feeling a bit unnerved, Sam hastened back to the better-lit portion of the backstage area. He tapped Rowlf on the shoulder as the dog sauntered by. "Rowlf, did you see that?"

"You bet I did! I didn't know sheep could even kick that high, much less while wearing heels!"

Sam waved his wing, disgusted. "No, no, not that! I mean, did you see someone back here just now? Over there, in those unorganized and possibly disreputable shadows?"

Obediently Rowlf peered in the direction the eagle pointed, then shook his head. "Uh, nope. Nope. Why? Did you?"

Sam hesitated, looking around carefully, then leaned in to mutter quietly: "For a moment there…just for a second…I could have sworn I saw…" Another suspicious glance around; Rowlf glanced too, puzzled. "Some _weirdo_ in a long brown coat."

"A long brown coat, huh? You mean him?" Rowlf pointed. Mickey Moose plodded by, nodding familiarly at them.

"Waaaaal hel _lo,_ pilgrims! That was some great music you had out there, pardner!" the moose lowed as he passed.

"Thanks," Rowlf nodded back, then looked queryingly at Sam.

Even more disgusted, Sam scowled. "Different weirdo."

Fozzie was in his dressing room, rehearsing a new joke in front of his mirror. "Last night, last night, I went out to a movie that was _so_ bad…haaaaa…it was _so_ bad, that before the intermission, all the popcorn… _ran out!"_ He posed, grin wide, waiting for a response. The mirror shivered, cracked, and broke into hundreds of fragments. "Aw, c'mon, it wasn't _that_ bad," Fozzie protested. "Now you've given me seven years' bad luck, over one lousy joke? Come on! Give a bear a break!" A squeaking floorboard behind him startled him; he'd thought he was alone. Turning around, he asked, "Scooter? Is that you?"

The dressing-room was empty. Fozzie sighed, put his hands on his waist, and complained to any Muppet furniture which might be lurking around, "Okay, come on, you guys. Can't a comedian rehearse in peace?" Another noise and a blur of motion just off to one side caught his attention; whirling to face it, he saw…nothing. The usual wardrobe, and crowded shelves of rubber chickens and joy buzzers, and Kermit's old bicycle resting against one wall were all that met his gaze. "Ha…okay…ha ha…very funny. _Verrrry_ funny, you guys. Okay, everybody out! Out!" He began waving his arms toward the door, sure that some heretofore unnoticed chair or lampshade would totter off any second. Nothing did. Then he thought he saw movement by the bicycle.

Reluctantly, beginning to feel frightened, Fozzie approached the bike. Kermit's bike was just a bike, right? He couldn't recall it ever moving on its own before. Slowly, slowly, he reached forward and…touched it. He leapt back, staring at it.

Nothing happened.

Another squeak came from behind him. Fozzie whirled again, seeing his door wavering a little, as if someone had just closed it. "Oh okay! I see what this is! Scare the bear day, hah?" Fozzie hurried to the door, determined to catch the practical joker. "Get him all worked up before showtime so he messes up his jokes, hah? Well I don't _need_ anyone to mess _me_ up! I can do that just fine on my –" He yanked the door open.

Absolutely no one was on the landing outside the dressing-room doors. Quickly Fozzie peered over the balcony. No one was currently backstage, either.

"Kerrrrr _miiiiiiit!"_ he wailed, running downstairs.

That night, the Newsman was standing near the newswire when it went off, frantically printing out three sheets of copy. The Newsman hesitated only a moment, allowing himself to wonder how ridiculous it would be this time, and whether his anonymous benefactor would already know what was on it. Running toward the newsdesk, he had a sudden, horrible thought: what if the nice things that had befell him, following worse things falling _on_ him, were all part of some twisted game? No, he thought; he'd been the victim of running gags before, but typically only for the course of one show. But what if the mysterious stranger knew exactly what he'd need after a newscast because _she_ was the one sending the news? He'd always wondered where on earth Muppet News Central actually was, and why they kept giving him only outrageous things to report… With a nervous gulp, he hurried onstage.

"Here is a Muppet News Flash!" At least, with this many pages of copy, it must be a longer and more involved story. "Marvin Suggs set concertgoing records last night when he played to a stadium where not a single ticket for the show had been sold. The one critic who attended the first two minutes of the concert claimed the formerly indefatigable Suggs' performance went over, quote, 'like a lead zeppelin'—"

He heard the sound of the incoming weight a split second before it landed atop him, squashing him nearly flat. The curtains closed briefly, and Floyd coaxed Animal in dragging off the heavy metal blimp while Beauregard used a snow shovel to scrape the Newsman from the boards. As Beau patiently carried the battered Newsman through the wing, something metal rolled in front of him.

"Looky here," Beau commented, picking up the canister. "Someone left a bicycle pump on the floor! That wasn't a very smart place to leave something that roll-ey. A person could trip and get hurt," he told the Newsman.

Faintly, the Newsman huffed at Beau, "Could you just blow me back up, please?"

Crazy Harry dashed over. "Heee hee ha ha ha! Did someone say _blow me up?"_

"Oh no," the Newsman groaned.

Much, much later that night, Beau brought him a few pieces of his tie and the fragments of another pair of glasses. "Okay, here's the last of it," the janitor said, dumping them onto a yellow and brown pile of fluff and plaid.

From within the pile, the Newsman mumbled, "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Well, everyone else is gone. Good night, Newsie," Beau said cheerfully, hanging up his trusty broom and dustpan. He closed the door to the broom closet. Sighing, the Newsman focused on getting himself back together. He wondered if any glue might be stored here…and if he could reach it.

Scooter arrived before most of the cast as usual, whistling as he went around turning on desk lamps in the backstage areas and dressing rooms. The dark and gloomy theatre, empty before anyone else showed up, could be a little spooky, but he'd long ago become accustomed to it. However, as he trotted across the bare stage to reach the switch that would turn off the ghostlight high above the fly system, something caught his eye out in the house. Halting, he looked out over the dim auditorium. "Hello?" he called, hearing the good acoustics of the walls throw his voice gently back at him. No one was in the lower house, no one in the short balcony, no one in the box. Shrugging, Scooter continued on, when he heard a strange muffled noise above him.

He looked up. Suspended upside down from one of the electrical rails for the lighting instruments, right over the stage, Crazy Harry hung wrapped in numerous loops of lighting cable. "Whoa!" Scooter exclaimed. "Harry, what are you doing up there?"

A cable had been shoved into Harry's mouth, so all he could do was gurgle and make "Mfff mnnnff mfff" sounds as he thrashed around, held tight in a black electrical cocoon. Scooter called up to him, "Hang on! I'll have you down in a jiffy!" He ran to the fly rail, peering at the labels on each line of rope going up into the darkness. "Let's see, curtain, front masking, scenery number one, electrical number one – there it is!" Vaguely he heard Harry making louder noises, and called over his shoulder, "Hold on! I'm taking the lock off the fly line now!" He grabbed the level-lock which held the line at its current height, and yanked down on it as hard as he could.

The batten carrying the electrics didn't move down an inch – but it did swing forwards and backwards as a hot current flew through the cable wrapped around Harry, turning him temporarily into an electromagnet. "Mnnff MNFF MNFF!" Harry said, shaking crazily in the shock of the current; then his own magnetism dragged a heavy steel batten right at him. It smacked him in the face. "Mnnff mnnn," he mumbled, and fainted. Then, with a crackling, snapping sound, the cable shorted through whatever had been suspending it high above and fell to the stage floor, taking Crazy Harry with it. He landed with a thud and the cable piled around him in long coils like a satisfied snake.

Horrified, Scooter looked at the fly rail, where he saw now some kind of booby-trapped switch had been rigged to the lock on that particular fly line. He looked up into the darkness just as the burned-out end of the cable came tumbling down and plopped onto the pile atop the unconscious Harry. He looked wildly out into the empty seats, the dimly lit house silent. He heard the back door creak and slap closed, and the voice of a familiar frog talking with Dr Teeth as the two came inside.

Scooter beat feet toward backstage. "Kerrmiiiiiit!"

"I don't care _how_ badly he blew you up! He blows _everything_ up! Pulling a mean nasty practical joke on him like that was completely uncalled-for!" It was Kermit's turn to explode. The Newsman, wrapped in the brown plaid bathrobe someone had left just outside the broom closet door for him, cringed, completely taken aback at his boss' anger.

"But – but I didn't –"

"I'll admit that blowing you up right after that thing fell on you was a pretty terrible thing to do, but that doesn't mean _you_ can just go around stringing people up in the electrics!" Kermit continued, waving his floppy green arms in the Newsman's face.

"And booby-trapping the fly rail," Scooter reminded Kermit.

"And booby-trapping the fly rail!" Kermit shouted, then stopped, startled, and turned to Scooter. "How did he booby-trap the fly rail?"

"Genius!" Gonzo said, entering with the twisted bits of plastic and dynamite wire he'd taken from the rail lock. "This is _magnificent!_ He used Harry's own bomb-wiring stuff to rig up a switch, so the first person to try and unlock the fly line would trigger the current!" He grabbed Kermit's sleeve excitedly. "Can you imagine? Hanging upside down above the stage as a _living magnet!_ I have _gotta_ use that in my act!"

"I have no idea what any of you are talking about!" the Newsman protested. "I spent all night gluing myself back together! I only just came out to go get some clothes from wardrobe." Everyone suddenly noticed he was standing there barefoot in nothing but a robe. "Ahem," the Newsman said, edging away and hurrying upstairs to the wardrobe storage room.

Beauregard approached, having overheard the exchange. "That's true, Kermit. Harry blew him up really good this time." He scratched his head. "I hope I got all the little bits. I'd hate for the little fluffy parts to get caught in the ventilation system. Some of us are allergic."

"Well…well…then if the Newsman didn't tie Harry up in that cable…" Kermit gulped.

"Then who did?" Beau asked, eyes widening.

Exasperated, Kermit flapped his flippers at the janitor. "How should I know? Beauregard, go…go get the stage swept! We open the house in an hour!" As Beau hurried away with broom in hand, Kermit shook his head. More quietly, he said, "I don't get it. Why would someone tie Harry up and shock him, if not to get back at him for blowing up the Newsman?"

"More importantly, who would take revenge on anything that happened to the Newsman?" Scooter wondered.

Gonzo grabbed Kermit's shoulder. "Kermit! Last week I saw someone in a brown coat hanging around outside! I asked what they wanted and they said they had to deliver something here, but wouldn't let me take it in for them. Then the fire happened, and what with Fozzie and the water hose, well, I kinda forgot about it."

Startled, Kermit looked from Gonzo to Scooter to Dr Teeth, all as worried as he. As Fozzie came in the back door, singing "Simon Smith and His Amazing Dancing Bear" in a low voice to himself, Kermit called him over. "Fozzie! Didn't you tell me yesterday you thought someone was in your dressing room?"

Alarmed, Fozzie nodded. "I did, I did! But when I looked there was nobody there!" Annoyed suddenly, he poked at Kermit's collar. "And _you_ said I was imagining things! What's going on?"

Kermit scowled, his froggy mouth turning down deeply. "I'm going to find out!" He hopped out onto the stage to examine the electrics.

Scooter nervously asked Fozzie, "You thought you saw someone in your room?"

"Yeah! But I turned around and nothing was there!"

Scooter shivered. "I thought…I mean I could've sworn…just for a second…"

"What? What?" Fozzie asked, grabbing the boy's shoulders.

"I could have sworn I saw someone out in the audience, right before I found Harry…but no one was there."

Dr Teeth, eyes uncharacteristically wide, shook his head. "Man, this is some heavy stuff! What if it's the Phantom?"

"You mean the Phantom of the Muppet Theatre?" Scooter gasped.

"Oh no, not him again," Fozzie groaned.

"That guy was even stranger than me," Gonzo agreed.

Kermit returned, a puzzled frown on his face. "Nothing's broken. Nothing. That lighting cable was one we'd had in the repair bin anyway. I don't get it."

"Kermit, what if it's the Phantom again?" Fozzie asked.

Kermit shook his head. "No, no, guys. Remember? Uncle Deadly knocked off that whole scare routine once we gave him free passes to the concession booth."

"You mean that greasy snack bar up front?" Dr Teeth asked.

"Yeah. He apparently loves yellow theatre popcorn. You could say, to stop his terror tactics, some butter concessions had to be made," Kermit said, laughing at his own joke. The others shook their heads.

Dr Bunsen Honeydew and Beaker came past, a stretcher with the limp and wildly staring Harry suspended between them. "Dr Honeydew? Do you think he'll be all right?" Kermit asked.

Harry lifted his head, cackled madly, then fell back on the stretcher. Beaker shook his head sadly. Dr Honeydew said, "Well, Kermit, of course I'm a scientist, not a medical doctor. I think he'll be fine, but I am curious to run some tests on his now superconductive body. It's quite possible we're looking at the elusive key to cold fusion right here!" He smiled down at Harry.

Kermit blanched. "Yeesh. Maybe we should just put him in Veterinarian's Hospital tonight. Hey, Rowlf? Crazy Harry got electrocuted and made into a magnet. Do you think you could use him in your sketch?"

"Oh, sure," Rowlf agreed, looking over the dazed bomber. "Electrocuted, you say? There must be a million jokes I could use. I'd be happy to ruff on that!"

"Don't you mean riff?" Kermit corrected.

"Oh, that too. I don't always get my slang right, but you know I do try to be current!"

Kermit shook his head as the lab staff carried the mad bomber away and Rowlf went downstairs to practice on the old upright piano. Gonzo brought up the main issue once more: "Do you think we have another ghost, Kermit?"

"A ghost!" Fozzie, aghast, shuddered.

"No, Gonzo. A ghost couldn't string someone up and plant an electrical booby-trap. Besides, there are no such things as ghosts."

The sudden appearance of a long blue-gray snout from around a pile of crates caused everyone to jump. "There's something weird lurking in the theatre!" Uncle Deadly cried out, gesturing dramatically at the back of the room, where the shadows fell deeply. "I keep thinking I see something moving around back here, but when I investigate, it's gone!"

"For crying out loud, Phantom, stop that!" Kermit shouted, once he'd recovered from the shock. "Wait a minute. That's not _you?"_

"No, I am a spectre of honor and dignity," Deadly said loftily. "We had a gentleman's agreement, and I have kept _my_ end." He leaned closer to Kermit. "I could use more butter on the popcorn, however."

"Kermit, I wish to report some very _strange_ goings-on," Sam the Eagle called out, trotting over to the small group now nervously checking every shadowy corner from a well-lit spot by the stage manager's desk.

"Sam, not now. I'm trying to figure out some strange goings-on myself," Kermit replied, beginning to feel very frazzled.

"But Kermit, I have seen some kind of… _weirdo_ hanging around backstage," Sam continued, then stared as Deadly slunk away toward the hall which led to the front of the house. He looked back at Kermit. "I mean, _another_ weirdo."

Kermit sighed. "Okay, Sam, what did you see?"

"Last night, right after that horrible number with the piano and the sheep, I saw someone lurking back there," Sam explained, gesturing to the darkest corner of the backstage area.

"What did they look like?" Kermit asked.

"Were they wearing a long brown coat?" Gonzo asked.

Sam looked startled. "Yes! Yes, they were! At least, I think so…" Embarrassed at their stares, he admitted, "I didn't really get a good look."

"What were they doing?" Kermit asked.

"Well, I didn't see a face, but it was tall – taller than me! And wearing a long brown coat, just like…" Turning, he saw something brown and tall behind him, and gasped, recoiling. "Just like that!"

Everyone cried out, whirling around. The Newsman stopped on the stair landing, looking bewildered at all of them. "Yes, yes, just like that! Tall, and with a long brown…coat…" Sam finished, his voice trailing off as the Newsman came the rest of the way down the stairs, carrying a fresh change of clothes on a hanger.

He glared at Sam. "This is a _robe._ And it's a tasteful tan plaid check, not brown! 'Scuse me." Insulted, he continued past Sam, the top of his head not quite reaching Sam's lofty bald dome. The others stared at him, then looked back at Sam.

"Excuse me as well. I have…something to do. Somewhere else," Sam muttered, fluttering off.

"Well, I think we all have something else to do, anyway," Kermit said, shaking his head. "Come on, you guys, we have a show to put on."

"I'm gonna see if I can tie myself up like that!" Gonzo said, hurrying off. Dr Teeth went out front to help with the sound check for the night's performance, Fozzie decided to go have a glass of sarsaparilla to calm his jangled nerves, and Scooter consulted his preshow checklist while Kermit looked over the night's schedule at his desk. Cautiously Scooter tapped the perplexed frog.

"Hey, boss?"

"Yeah, Scooter?"

"If the Newsman couldn't have tied Harry up, and Uncle Deadly didn't do it, and no one else was in the building, who dunnit?"

"I don't know, Scooter. I just don't know." He sighed. "What I _do_ know is we've still got a show to do tonight, assuming our audience doesn't get scared off."

"Right, boss." Scooter hurried away to tend to the numerous small details involved in readying the stage for the night. Alone at his desk, Kermit pushed around the lists of sketches and artists, wondering if putting the hospital sketch before or after the dancing salami would be better. He wasn't sure it really mattered; perhaps the real issue was why he was even allowing the dancing salami onstage at all. A breeze made him turn around; he saw the exit door gently swinging shut. Curious and more than a little unnerved, he hurried down the steps and pushed open the door. Dusk was creeping across the sky, but there was enough light for him to see that the loading dock, from platform to alleyway, was completely unoccupied. He stood a moment, looking around, and a cool wind made him shiver.

"Just the wind," Kermit said to himself. "Those guys really do need to remember to close the door completely. It hasn't been hanging right since Animal ripped it off last time."

He went back inside and tried to focus on his job, for the time being shoving all thoughts of a phantom stranger out of his head.

Below him in the basement broom closet, the Newsman started to disrobe (having made _very_ sure the door was shut tight) when he noticed a small envelope propped against his box of spare glasses. He wasn't sure it was even safe to touch. He reached for it, hesitated, reached again, paused again, and finally poked his head out of his crowded dressing-room to see who might be hanging around just outside. Miss Piggy happened to be trotting by, munching on a strawberry-cheese Danish. "Ah, excuse me, Miss Piggy?"

"Aaagh!" Piggy shrieked, then seeing who it was, quickly threw aside the remainder of the pastry and wiped the crumbs from her snout. "Whaddaya mean sneaking up on a lady like that, Newsgeek?"

"I'm sorry, it's just that I…well…could you open this for me?" the Newsman asked, indicating the envelope.

"What'sa matter, you broke your hands as well as your brain?" Piggy snorted, but she picked up the envelope (nothing exploded), opened it, and pulled out a small, elegant sheet of linen paper. "Poor Dear One, please know that whatever happens to you tonight…" she read aloud.

"Give me that!" the Newsman said hurriedly, trying to snatch it from Piggy.

"Ohhhh, I see what this is," Piggy cooed, keeping the note out of his reach. "You got something dropped on you one too many times, and you thought you'd give me a cute little love note? Well, buster," her tone changed to belligerence, "Ya thought wrong! My heart belongs to the frog, not to some yellow, wimpy, four-eyed geek stuck permanently in 1974's Fashion Hell!"

"No, I didn't –" Newsman tried to explain.

"I don't need another freak with a crush on me! I had enough of that with Gonzo! Now back off, Newsgeek!" Piggy growled, ripping up the note. She scattered the pieces on the floor, walking off with a toss of her golden locks. Frantically the Newsman picked up all the pieces, trying to reassemble them. What did it say? It had to be from his mystery woman! Was it a warning? A threat? A sympathy card? He shivered in incredulity: a love note?

Embarrassed, he realized the people hanging out in the dining area were staring at him, and gathered up the bits of paper and retreated to his dressing-room. Still in his robe, he labored for several minutes to correctly put the note back together. "Poor Dear One, please know that whatever happens to you tonight…I will be…" Was that word _there?_ Or _aware?_ Or _scare?_ The paper had torn right in the middle of it, obscuring the letters. Frustrated, he tried to read the rest. "I'm sorry about Harry. I punished…" More tears, more destroyed bits of alphabet he couldn't quite piece together. "You and…will do…again." What? Oh, no! That couldn't be right. Could it? He thought of his fear that the mysterious stranger and the Muppet Newsfeed which provided his income and greatest source of personal terror were connected somehow. She would punish him? Wasn't he usually punished enough, and for doing nothing wrong? Biting his nails, the Newsman shivered uncontrollably. Oh, he couldn't go on tonight. Someone was playing games with him. Bad enough that he expected something at least ridiculous to happen to him (and at most, extremely painful and mortifying) on any given night without someone tormenting him with this! All those little gestures he'd welcomed as so thoughtful toward him must only have been to lull him into a false sense of security!

The Newsman huddled in the broom closet, his robe wrapped tight around him, a thousand horrible fates swirling through his mind.

Just outside, Janice found a tiny piece of pretty paper on the floor by the couch. Picking it up, she murmured, "Hey, people shouldn't litter. That is _such_ a drag." Noticing it had writing on it, she read it, then exclaimed to the rest of the room, "Hey, like, I think I just found someone's love note! It just says 'I truly adore you'! Like, how sweet!"

"Oh yeah, you missed it earlier!" Floyd Pepper laughed, coming over to look at the note. "Newsie's got himself a little crush on Miss Piggy!"

"Noooo," Janice replied, and Floyd laughed again.

"Oh, yeah! He tried to give her a note earlier. You can see what she thought about _that!"_

"Oh, that is like soooo sad," Janice said, giving the closed broom closet door a sympathetic look. "I didn't know he even thought about things like _love,_ and here he's been keeping a secret crush all locked up inside for years, maybe, and acting soooo serious, and none of us ever knew, you know?"

Floyd nodded. "Yeah, maybe that guy has a heart after all. But what I wanna know is, _why_ did he have an achin' for the bacon?" He chuckled.

"Like she is so toootally Kermie's girl," Janice agreed. "I guess he just hasn't been paying attention."

"Or maybe he's just been squashed too many times, and thinks Piggy'll defend him from large falling objects!"

Scooter called down that the house would be opening in a minute, and the musicians strolled off to take their places. Oblivious to all else, cringing into as small a space as he could manage within the double-duty closet, the Newsman kept looking at the bit of paper which said "punish," shaking in fright. What had he done? Why was someone playing this terrible game? How could he escape it? Could he refuse to present the news tonight, even if a report came in for him to deliver? Would Kermit fire him if he refused? Would that be worse than being blown up again? _Were_ there worse things than being blown up? If the mystery woman knew of worse things, would she try to do them to him?

In agony, but for once without a scratch on him, the Newsman sat there, scared to even get dressed, waiting for the inevitable knock on the door.


	3. Chapter 3

"Did you see that?" Fozzie gasped, grabbing Kermit. They both looked around wildly; Kermit saw nothing out of place, and shook his head at the bear. Fozzie crumpled his hat in his paw anxiously. "I swear, I swear I saw someone just go behind the scenery! Over to the other side of the stage! We should investigate," he offered.

Kermit nodded. "Yeah, good idea." They looked at one another a beat.

Fozzie pointed his hat at the frog. "You first."

With a sour look, Kermit sighed in frustration, and when Scooter came running offstage from a quick scene change for Veterinarian's Hospital, he grabbed the gofer by the sleeve. "Scooter, did you see anyone out there who's not supposed to be here?"

Scooter shrugged. "Well, I think you threw that rat in the first row out last time for throwing canned tomatoes at Fozzie, but other than that, no."

"No one behind the scenery? No one over on stage left?"

"Nobody that I saw," Scooter replied, then realized what was being asked. "Boss! Did someone else see the Brown Ghost?"

"Brown Ghost? Scooter, how many times do I have to tell you: there aren't any such things as ghosts!" Irritated, Kermit suddenly noticed someone not where they should be. "Guys? Is there a Muppet Labs sketch tonight I didn't know about?"

Dr Honeydew and Beaker straightened up. "Meep mee mee _mee!"_ Beaker said, sounding embarrassed. The pair had been peeking around the edge of the curtain.

"No, Kermit. My loyal associate and I have a, well," Honeydew snickered, "something of a wager going on."

Kermit looked at them, then peeked through the crack in the stage masking as well. They'd been looking out at the audience, not at the stage. Confused, he asked, "Does your wager involve how many seats are full tonight?"

Beaker's head swiveled rapidly. Honeydew put one hand to his mouth, chuckling. "Oh, no. Nothing like that. We were looking for one specific audience member." He turned to Beaker. "She's not there. Come on; you owe me a bite of sandwich."

Beaker sighed, trudging off behind Honeydew. "You made a bet over a bite of a sandwich?" Fozzie asked. "Geez, that's a small bet! Why not go for the whole sandwich, at least?"

"Oh, he doesn't _owe_ me a sandwich. He has to take a bite of the sandwich I just made with Muppet Labs' brand-new Expanding Falaffel Mix! It doubles as a bulletproof vest in tense Middle East hostage situations," Honeydew explained. Beaker sighed, and the two walked off.

"Mee mee, mee mee meep…"

"Then put a little mustard on it. Come on, I have some nice sprouts that'll go well with it too…"

"Those two get a little stranger every day," Kermit mused.

"Yeah and Kermit, speaking of strangers, I'm telling ya, I saw someone over there as I was coming offstage! Ask Statler and Waldorf! They probably got a better look than I did," Fozzie insisted.

"I don't have time for that right now," Kermit argued. He heard scattered laughter at the horrible electrical jokes onstage:

"Oh, Doctor Bob, this man was electrocuted! What do we do?"

"What else _can_ we do? Plug my phone into him; it needs charging!"

"Like, Doctor Bob, I wonder what it's like to feel all that current?"

"I don't know, but it looks like _he's_ giving it a glowing review!"

Kermit checked the schedule of acts. "What's next…stand by for the ballroom number!" he called over the intercom.

"Fozzie, there's no one on that side of the stage," Scooter said, squinting across from the wing. "Why don't you just take the tunnel over and see for yourself?"

Fozzie paused. "The tunnel?"

"Yeah, you know, the hallway under the stage that goes over to the other side," Scooter elaborated.

Fozzie waved his hat at him. "I _know_ what the tunnel is! But it's dark, and scary, and it only goes over there…where _it_ is…right…now…"

Kermit shooed the bear away. "There is no _it!_ No lurking Phantom, no Brown Ghost! Nothing is in this theatre but us! Nothing!"

A couple of multilegged bugs poked their heads out of the wall to stare at him. Kermit sighed. "Eeh…okay, nothing _else!_ You guys get out of here too before I start to feel hungry!" The bugs squeaked and vanished. Muttering and looking everywhere around him, Fozzie left. Rowlf came offstage, pushing the hospital bed with Crazy Harry strapped down in it; Harry was cackling madly, apparently over his earlier shock. Miss Piggy and Janice followed. "Ballroom onstage now!" Kermit directed, and as people began shifting things around behind the curtain, Piggy stopped.

"Oh Kermie, there is something I need to discuss with _vous,"_ she simpered.

"Piggy, I'm a little bit busy right now; can it wait?"

"It can if you don't mind losing one of your employees," Piggy growled. Kermit winced.

"Okay, ah, Piggy! I didn't know you were that upset about anything. What is it?"

"I am _not_ dealing with this nonsense again, and especially not from _that_ nerd," Piggy said, tossing her hair imperiously.

"What…what nonsense? Piggy, nobody wants you to leave. You're the star of the show! We can't have a great show without you, you know that!"

"Oh…aha, ha, ha. Thank yoooou Kermie." She fluttered her eyelids at her frog. "But that wasn't what I meant. I meant if that wimpy little Sam Donaldson wannabe makes a pass at me again, he'll be leaving. A short, fast trip on the toe of this ugly little nurse shoe," she growled.

Bewildered, Kermit looked around to see who had incurred the wrath of the pig now. "Who? Who made a pass at you?"

"Who d'ya think? That idiot who gets stuff dropped on him all the time!"

"The Newsman?" Kermit shook his head. "I wasn't aware he even knew _how_ to make a pass at anyone."

"He tried to pull me into his little closet downstairs, _in his bathrobe,_ and make me read a love note!" Piggy complained.

"A love note?" Kermit shook his head again. "Good grief…okay, I'll talk to him."

"You'd better. Or what's happened to him so far will look like a walk in the park," Piggy finished, and tromped off to change into her new sparkly green dress for her "Poison Ivy" song number coming up.

"Yeesh," Kermit sighed. What on earth was going on around here? First a supposed ghost in a brown coat making everyone jumpy, then their resident mad bomber getting the tables turned on him, and now this? "I would've thought Piggy scared him too much," he mumbled, and watched a moment as the ballroom scene began.

"Did you hear ghosts have been sighted in this ballroom? Can you imagine? Leaving your spirit behind on a dance floor!" a pig lady said to her partner.

"What's so strange about that? I once left my heart in Sandy's Disco," he replied.

A long-nosed blue monster danced by with a hideous fanged thing.

"If you saw a ghost, would you dance with it?" the fanged thing asked.

"Why would I? I've already got the most boo-tiful girl in the room!"

A grayish Whatnot danced along with Mildred in her best pearls.

"What do you think of all this talk of ghosts?" Mildred asked.

"Nah, I don't believe any of it."

"You don't believe in ghosts?"

"I don't believe it's a good idea to talk about 'em!" the Whatnot cried, as a ghost Muppet swooped low, nearly missing him.

Kermit scowled. "Okay, who rigged up the ghosts? Knock it off!"

Scooter ran up. "Hey Boss, we just got an incoming story over the wire, but the Newsman refuses to come out of his dressing room!"

"He what? Urgh," Kermit groaned. "Okay, okay, I'll go talk to him! You make sure the scene gets shifted for Piggy's number – and lose those ghosts!"

"Check!"

Kermit hopped downstairs, becoming more irritated by the second. Why couldn't they have one show, just _one,_ where _everything_ went smoothly? He stopped at the shut door to the broom closet, noting that someone, probably the kindhearted Beauregard, had stuck a shiny little star sticker on the door, and underneath the name _Newsie_ was scrawled in blue crayon. The 'S' was backwards. Kermit knocked. "Uh, Newsman? You're up next."

No answer. Kermit knocked harder. "There's a report for you to read, so you better get out here! You're on right after Piggy!" Still silence. Kermit looked around, seeing a few Muppets listening in, not terribly discreetly. The frog pounded on the door. "Newsman?... Okay, fine! I'll get someone else to read it!" Quickly everyone in the dining area looked away, or busied themselves with something else. Kermit thought he heard a sound inside the broom closet. "What's that, Link? You'll do it?" Across the room, Link Hogthrob vehemently shook his head, waving his arms protectively in front of himself. "Ah, okay, okay. You say you can do it better than the Newsman?" Kermit listened carefully; sure enough, he heard noises inside the tiny cupboard. Loudly he continued, "Well good, good! And I'll give you your salary plus what I'm paying the Newsman!"

The door opened. The Newsman looked ready, but wouldn't meet Kermit's eye. Silently he held out his hand. Kermit shoved the news report into it. "Good. Now get up there!" Without a word, the Newsman plodded upstairs as though he was going to his certain doom. Kermit felt a pang of pity; after being squashed and then blown up, he probably had good reason to not want to set foot onstage ever again. But someone had to do it, and it wasn't as though anyone else around here wanted to take the risk…

"Uh, excuse me, Kermit?" Link asked. Kermit looked at the ruggedly handsome hog. "How much does he make? 'Cause I might have to ask for a raise, or hazard pay –"

"Will you get out of here?" Kermit snapped, waving his flippers at the clueless hunk. "Eeesh!" He bounded back upstairs to resume his post at his desk. One crisis solved; what would be next?

The Newsman waited anxiously in the stage right wing, clutching his news copy, not daring to even look at it yet. Onstage, Piggy was singing her considerable porcine lungs out to the chorus of "Poison Ivy:" "Late at night, when you're sleeping, Poison Ivy comes a-creeping aroooooouuuuund…" She wiggled her bottom at the audience, and the Newsman shook his head softly to himself. How could she have thought he was trying to express some tender thought to _her?_

Gonzo nudged him. "I'm sorry she blew you off. I've been there. I feel your pain."

Annoyed, the Newsman tried to correct him: "No, it wasn't –"

"Wow, look at that ivy go!" Gonzo exclaimed.

Kermit joined them, noting at a glance that his newscaster was at least standing by, even if reluctantly. Then he saw what was happening onstage just as Piggy began squealing: a long tendril of ivy was wrapping itself around her. Angrily Kermit turned to Gonzo, who was watching rapturously. "Gonzo! You didn't let that horrible African climber vine back in here, did you?"

"Would you rather we used real poison ivy?" Gonzo retorted. "At least this won't make Piggy all itchy!"

"Well, that's good," Kermit sighed. "It looks like she's gonna have a hard time scratching anything."

The vine had wound itself quickly around Piggy, who was struggling and grunting madly as the pig backup singers milled in confusion. Then the vine yanked one of them off his trotters, and the others fled. "Argh! Curtain! Curtain!" Kermit yelled. Scooter dropped the curtain to the audience's applause. Muppets dashed onstage to retrieve Piggy and drag the rapidly growing vine away. Somehow the news set slid into place and the fighting tendrils of climber vine were wrestled out the back door, although it dragged a shouting, furious Piggy with it. Swallowing hard, the Newsman straightened his tie and ran on as the curtain opened again.

"This is a Muppet News Flash!" He glanced at his paper. "Professional ghost hunters have looked into the wild rumors of a haunting at the Muppet Theatre!" Nervously he looked around. Had he just heard something moving behind him? "Performers had complained of a mysterious figure in a brown coat lurking in the shadows, terrorizing the cast and crew! However, after investigating the alleged paranormal activity, the ghost hunters concluded the rumors were false. There is _no_ spectral threat to the theatre!" Suddenly he heard groaning above him; his head jerked up to see two filmy, white things swooping over him. "Aaagh!" he screamed as one dive-bombed him.

"Statler, look! He's being booed!" Waldorf said.

"Are those ghosts or audience members?"

"Ho ho ho ho!"

The Newsman took a swipe at one of the things; his hand went right through it. Terrified, he realized he'd be expected to run off stage right, where everyone else was. Hoping to escape, he switched direction, ducking under the things and heading for stage left at top speed. He could hear the horrible phantoms booing and laughing, clearly following him! Wasn't there an exit somewhere on this side? Would a door even stop them? Heading for the dim red light which marked the stage left exit, he tripped over a coiled length of rope next to the flyrail and went flying down the short run of steps leading to the tunnel door. "AaaAAAaaa!" he shrieked, immediately knowing how much hitting the floor was going to hurt – and a figure stepped through the door and held its dark arms open wide.

It was much taller than him and caught him easily. The Newsman looked up, saw its shadowed face bending over him, and with a choked cry fainted dead away.


	4. Chapter 4

"Scooter! I thought I said lose the ghosts!"

The swooping things careened into the audience, where shouts of panic rose. The spirits laughed and dove, and people began heading for the exits. Alarmed, Kermit looked from that to the spooks, then back to Scooter. "Whose idea was this? We haven't even done the closing number!"

"B-but boss…those aren't ours!"

"What do you mean those aren't ours?"

"They're ghosts, Kermit! Real ghosts!" Fozzie cried, backing away although the things seemed occupied with chasing audience members. Statler and Waldorf ducked down behind their seats. Floyd made a run for the stage, climbing over the orchestra pit wall; Zoot ducked down, and Nigel and the Trumpet Lady were nowhere to be seen; Rowlf shivered under his piano bench; Animal climbed onto the lip of the pit and began snapping his teeth and trying to catch one of the swift-moving spooks.

Kermit shuddered, looking around at the chaos. "There are _no such thing as ghosts!_ Lights! Scooter, hit the lights!"

"The house or the stage?"

"All of 'em!"

Quickly Scooter brought up the lights. It did the mostly vanished audience no good, but with the stage worklights on, Fozzie suddenly saw something awful in the stage left wing. "Kermit! It's the Brown Ghost! It's got the Newsman!"

Everyone looked. A figure in a long trenchcoat, holding the unconscious Newsman in one arm and bending over him, turned its head toward the rest of them. "It's gonna eat him!" Fozzie bawled, waving his arms wildly in front of himself as if to ward off any similar attacks.

"Not if we can help it! Aaaaaaaa!" Gonzo yelled, charging across the stage with a prop lance from their last production of "Camelot." "Get 'em, girls!"

A wave of chickens surged after Gonzo, clucking angrily. "Let him go, you horrible brown spectre! You're no match for the Great Gonzo and his Army of Ninja Warrior Poultry!" The intruder dodged the lance, still keeping hold of its prey, but then, with fearsome war cries of "Bok-bok-ba- _kawk!",_ the chickens attacked. The enigma batted at the flapping wings and pecking beaks, but staggered and went down, bracing itself against the short wall to the stairwell. "Get 'em! Get 'em! That's it, Camilla! Use the Rhode Island Red pose!" Gonzo shouted, bravely jabbing the rubber lance.

"What the hey?" Kermit said, hurrying across. He glanced out at the empty theatre house, where the swooping ghosts, having chased the entire audience away, were turning their attention on the two old men in their box.

"Help! Help!" Waldorf shouted.

"My heart!" Statler gasped.

Fozzie went after Kermit, wringing his paws in great agitation. "Hey bear! Help us!" Waldorf appealed.

 _"_ _Now_ you want me?" Fozzie shouted back. "Forget it! I don't do spooks!"

Surrounded by crazily pecking chickens, the coated intruder dodged, throwing small kicks at them, its arms now both engaged in warding off flapping attacks. Kermit arrived at the scene, unsure whether to stop the chickens or see what would happen next. Whatever this was, it wasn't a ghost; he doubted real ghosts would yell "Ow! Stop!" And it wasn't a monster…at least, it wasn't behaving like any monster he'd ever encountered. When Gonzo lunged too close to the Newsman, sprawled out cold on the top step, the trenchcoated one stepped in front of him, tossing Gonzo aside by grabbing the other end of the lance and swinging it. Two chickens were smacked as Gonzo flew by.

"Baaawwwwwkk!"

"Oof…sorry, Camilla!"

 _"_ _What the hey is going on around here?"_ Kermit yelled at the top of his voice, startling everyone. The mysterious figure paused, a chicken's legs caught in its left gloved hand. Upside-down, the chicken ceased fighting, looking confusedly at Kermit.

"Take _this,_ foul creature!" Gonzo screamed, still in full-war mode, running at the stranger with lance outstretched.

"Wait, wait!" Dr Honeydew popped out of the door to the tunnel. "Beaker, stop him!" He shoved the unwilling Beaker in front of Gonzo. The rubber lance smacked into Beaker, bending and getting caught under his tie; the force of Gonzo's charge lifted the poor lab assistant off his feet.

 _"_ _Meeeeep!"_

"Whoops! Sorry, Beakie," Gonzo said, backing off.

"Will everyone stop running around and pecking and fighting and someone please tell me what is going on around here?" Kermit shouted, waving his flippers.

"Kermit, I believe there's been a slight misunderstanding," Honeydew said, stepping forward. He gestured at the entity in the coat; its head was down, a fedora pulled low so no face could be seen. "This isn't a ghost."

"I can see that," Kermit said, annoyed. "So who or what is it?"

Before that question could be answered, the small spectral things that looked like white tennis balls with trailing gauze floating around them flew over. "BooooOOOooo!" one of them moaned.

"Aaagh!" Fozzie shrieked, cringing – but the stranger stepped forward, blocking the advance of the ghostly things.

 _"_ _Don't even think about it!"_ she shouted in a surprisingly loud voice; everyone trembled. Even the ghosts swirled backwards. The intruder lifted her head, and waved her arms at the spooks in a shooing gesture. "If you so much as boo at my Newsie again, I'll get out my grandmama's special spook jar and stuff you both in it and you won't see the dark of night again until Kermit and Piggy's children's children are ghosts themselves! Do you hear me?"

"Oh, my!" Honeydew laughed. Beaker looked alarmedly from him to the stranger to the little ghosts. Fozzie stared in absolute speechlessness.

Kermit gulped. "Mine and Piggy's children's children?"

"Who the heck is that?" Gonzo wondered aloud. The chickens quietly clucked astonished agreement. Even Statler and Waldorf had fallen silent, peeking over the edge of the box.

"Aw, we were just playing," one of the spooks muttered.

"We heard you guys talking about ghosts. It sounded fun," the other whined.

"Well go play somewhere else!" the mysterious person shouted, shooing them again. "Go on! Out! _Out!"_

Grumbling pettishly, the ghosts swooped away, fading from sight as they went. The figure stood near the edge of the stage, watching them go. Kermit turned to Dr Honeydew. "Bunsen? Do you know this person?"

"Well, we only met a week ago, but yes," Bunsen replied.

Animal stuck his head up over the stage lip, eyes wide, staring at the stranger. Suddenly he yelled, "WO-MAN! WO-MAN!" and jumped up, running towards her. She quickly backtracked to the little group by the exit stairs. Startled, the Muppets looked up as she rejoined them, putting them between her and the excited drummer. It was indeed a young woman, and she appeared somewhat ashamed as everyone stared at her.

"You see, Kermit," Bunsen continued, "this young lady came to the lab a week ago and asked for my help. It seems you wouldn't let her backstage, so she wanted a way to be able to come and go without anyone noticing her presence. Fortunately we had a test formula of our new Peripheral Disappearing Spray ready, and –"

"You mean she's the one who's been sneaking around and scaring the pants off everyone?" Kermit demanded.

"Ah, Kermit…I don't wear pants," Fozzie reminded his friend.

"It's a figure of speech, Fozzie. Bunsen, I don't believe you did that! Why would you help anyone sneak into the theatre? And you, Miss…" Kermit looked up into her face. "What on earth are you trying to do? You've had everyone convinced the theatre had a ghost!"

The woman slowly took off her hat, revealing a small round face with high cheekbones, and soft auburn tresses tied back in a ponytail. She was blushing very pink. "Mr Frog, sir, I'm really sorry. I didn't intend to scare anyone. It's just that I needed to be back here some nights, and you chased me away the first night I tried to get in…"

She did look familiar; Kermit recalled having chased someone like her out two weeks past. Once in a while, some fan or critic would try to gain a backstage pass, usually in hope of meeting one of their guest stars, and it was his policy never to let anyone backstage unless they were actually involved in the show. "But why? Why would you go to so much trouble? Were you the one who hung Crazy Harry up from the electrics?"

"I just wanted to teach him a lesson so he wouldn't pick on Newsie again," the young woman said. The reporter in question groaned, coming around finally. "Oh! Newsie! Are you okay?"

The Newsman opened his eyes to see giant brown wings swooping in at him. "Aaagh!" he cried, flinching, but then felt two hands touching his shoulders. Shaking, he looked at them; what he'd taken for wings were the loose sleeves of an enormous coat. Slowly he looked up into a lovely face. Gray eyes gazed tenderly at him; a petite nose and rosy mouth were slightly drawn up in worry. "W-who are you?" he stammered. "What happened?"

"You got ghost-busted," Gonzo informed him.

"I'm really sorry I scared you," the young woman apologized. "Are you all right?"

"F-fine," the Newsman replied, still shaking. He recognized that voice! It was the woman who'd tended his tenderized head and put salve on his burns. And, if he guessed right, the one who'd left that frightening note in his dressing room! He cringed away from her. "Are you here to punish me?"

She started back, confused. "Punish you? Why on earth would I do that?"

"I know you," the Newsman accused her. "You…you know what's going to happen to me before it does! You leave things for me to find afterwards!"

"Yes I do," she admitted. "Why would you think I'd punish you? You take punishment enough as it is, and you haven't even done anything wrong."

"You left me that note!"

"Oh," she said, blushing again. "Yes, that was me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did."

Seeing Kermit and the others gathered around listening, the Newsman felt bold enough to confront this strange avenging angel. "The note said you'd punished me and were going to do so again!"

"What? No! No, not at all!" She turned even more pink. "Didn't you read it? I said, I was sorry about Harry bombing you. I didn't see that one coming. But I punished _him_ for you."

"You what?" The Newsman was totally baffled now. At least she didn't seem threatening… Now that he really studied her, she seemed more…shy.

"That was –" Kermit began, but Gonzo broke in excitedly.

"That was _amazing!_ How did you get the cable down from the grid?"

"Oh, I climbed up and attached it with a timed fuse, so it would conduct current a few seconds and then burn itself out without harming any of the other equipment," the young woman explained to him. "I'm a techie at the Sosilly Theatre a couple of blocks from here."

"Oh yeah, the Sosilly. Don't they host that big juggling festival every April?" Gonzo asked.

"Yes, we do. I could get you in to see it if you want," the young woman offered.

"Oh _could_ you? I'd like to enter every event! You should _see_ my trapeze-chainsaw-live-lobster juggle!"

 _"_ _Hey!"_ Kermit shouted, getting everyone's attention again.

Looking embarrassed, the stranger sat down on the stairs just below the Newsman, who was still in a state of shock. So…she wasn't setting him up? She really had been trying to help him? What had the rest of that note really said? He stared at her in wonder while Kermit harangued her.

"Look, Miss Whoeveryouare –"

"Gina. Gina Broucek," the young woman supplied hesitantly.

"Miss Gina Broucek, you have caused one heck of a lot of havoc around here! Our audience is gone, and will probably have to be bribed to come back tomorrow night; the entire crew has been scared by what they thought was a ghost sneaking around; Crazy Harry won't be exploding anything anytime soon…" Kermit paused, rethinking that one. "Okay, well, maybe that one's not so bad. But the point is, your little hide-and-seek game has stirred up a whole hornet's nest around here!"

"Oh, don't say that," the Newsman begged, glancing around fearfully.

"Hear, hear!" Statler yelled down. "Those spooks just about gave poor Waldorf a heart attack!"

"That wasn't _me,_ you old goat!" Waldorf growled.

"Hey, I had nothing to do with those things," Gina called up to them.

"Why don't you guys just go home?" Kermit shouted.

"What, and miss all this kissing and making up?"

"Oh, haw haw haw haw!"

Kermit couldn't see the box seats from the side of the stage, but when it fell silent in the auditorium he guessed the hecklers had gone out. He sighed, and appealed to their visitor again. "Just what were you trying to achieve with all this?"

"Um. Well," Gina said, ducking her head. "I just, um. I just wanted to make Newsie feel better."

Incredulous, the Newsman stared at her. Exasperated, Kermit continued, "Why? Why now? He's had terrible things happen to him for years!"

"But I haven't been here for years," she protested, glancing back at the Newsman. "I only started coming here two months ago, and not every night, but whenever I could, I'd sit out there and watch the show. You guys are fantastic." The Muppets exchanged looks of surprise. The remaining band members had crept out of their hiding spots, and now they and Scooter, Piggy, and several other cast and crew members were gathering on the stage, watching and listening. "I sat out there and enjoyed every minute of it…except for the News Flashes."

The Newsman felt affronted. Was his work not good enough? He tried, every time, to present the story with all the dignity and sincerity he could project. It wasn't his fault bizarre things happened!

"I saw this poor man getting hit, humiliated, stabbed, pounded, and buried under every possible thing that could fall on him. Everyone else laughed." Gina swallowed, looking sympathetically at the Newsman. "I wanted to stop it. I thought about that every time it happened, and every time there was no news that night, I went home feeling relieved for his sake. I should tell you I'm a gypsy."

"That's okay, I'm a whatever," Gonzo said, patting her arm.

"No, I mean my grandmama was of the Rom. She saw things, knew things, could talk to ghosts and tell the future. I'm not as good as she was, but I have a little of the gift, and sometimes, when I really focus on something…I can feel what's coming next," Gina explained.

"That is so cool," Fozzie said. "Quick! Quick! What card am I holding up?" He produced a battered playing card from somewhere, turning the face side toward Gina.

"Three of hearts," she said, smiling. "But it doesn't work like that."

"Ohhhh, she is _good!"_ Fozzie said to Kermit. "Hey, would you consider working with a very funny bear?"

"You know what's going to happen to the Newsman?" Kermit asked, trying to follow all this. He was aware of everyone else, possibly everyone in the theatre, now quietly surrounding them, sitting on the stage floor or leaning against the set. Muppets murmured to one another as they listened in; at least, it seemed, the news that their apparition was just a person was getting around. Maybe now the whole theatre could relax.

The Newsman was speechless, meeting Gina's gaze as she turned to look at him again. "Yes. On the way to the theatre, I just get this…feeling. Sometimes I stop on the way to pick up something I think he'll need; sometimes I can find what's needed around the theatre. I've been leaving things around to help him recover." She glanced at Kermit. "I'm really sorry I scared everyone. I tried hard to be quiet and invisible."

"And as long as you didn't approach anyone directly, the Peripheral Disappearing Spray kept you hidden from view!" Bunsen declared proudly. "It, ah, does have the unfortunate side effect of projecting a really scary subsonic vibration that tends to make people nervous when they sense it."

"Eeesh," Kermit muttered.

"But…but if you knew what was going to happen…why not just stop it?" the Newsman asked. "The pineapples…the live mic…the lead ze—" he stopped himself, nervously looking up.

Gina shook her head, taking off her gloves. Gently she touched the Newsman's hand with her own. He looked down, surprised; no one had ever done so with him. "It doesn't work like that. I never know exactly what's going to befall you…"

"Or fall on him," Fozzie murmured.

"I just get an idea of what you're going to need. And so I've been trying to make your life a little easier," Gina said, gazing shyly at him. "I'm sorry if I made you worry."

Kermit sighed. "Why didn't you at least reveal yourself to him? I practically had to drag him out of his cupboard tonight!"

"Well, um…I know you're all Muppets," Gina said, looking down. Her bangs slid over her eyes. The Newsman wanted to brush them away for her, but didn't quite dare.

They all nodded at one another, puzzled. "Yeah, that's us." "Yep." "Sure are."

Shaking his head, Kermit asked, "What's that got to do with it?"

"All of you," she said, looking around, and then at the Newsman. "Even him."

Suddenly she bent forward and planted a kiss on his long nose. "I'm sorry." She leapt to her feet and ran backstage. The rear door banged shut behind her. Everyone stood or sat there, confused.

"Oh…kay," Fozzie said, scratching his head.

"Does she have something against Muppets?" Scooter wondered.

"So," Gonzo said, clapping his hands together and looking around, "who wants to play freeze tag?"

Confused chatter, arguments arose. The Newsman sat still, in shock, and slowly lifted a hand to touch the spot she'd kissed.

Kermit saw him and shook his head, sighing. Finally he began waving everyone offstage. "Okay, okay, enough, you guys! Let's get this place cleaned up! I just hope we have an audience tomorrow night after all this mess!" The excited speculation and gossiping continued for the next half-hour as everyone tidied up. Eventually Kermit had to nudge the Newsman, who remained on the exit stairs the entire time, apparently lost in thought. "Hey, Newsman. Time to go home."

The Newsman turned bewildered eyes up to his boss. "She called me Newsie," he said.

"Yep, yep, I heard that. Go on. Go home. See you tomorrow night."

Nodding, the Newsman got to his feet, felt his pockets for his wallet and keys, and walked away. He walked, alone, the few hundred yards to the rat-infested tenement apartment that was all he could afford. Voices blared out behind the closed doors he passed on the stairs up to the seventeenth floor: TV sets on too loud, babies wailing, people squabbling. He didn't hear any of it, dazed. When he opened his apartment door and turned on the light, several large rats groaned or turned over on the floor in front of the staticky old TV in the main room. "Hey buddy! We're tryin' ta sleep! Can you keep it down?" one particularly large rodent demanded.

"Oh, sure," he mumbled, turning the light back off. Carefully he stepped around the rats, seeing by the Technicolor illumination of the idiot box, and went into his bedroom. He pulled down the windowshade, discombobulating another rat who'd been wrapped in it like a lounger in a hammock. Tiredly, the Newsman picked the smaller rat up by the tail, tossed it into the main room, and shut his door. He went into the tiny bathroom as he usually did to splash water on himself before retiring for the night, looked at his nose in the cracked and flyspecked mirror, and paused. He didn't really want to wash the kiss off. Instead he simply took off his outer clothes and lay down on his narrow bed in an undershirt and polka-dot shorts.

She'd been looking out for him, helping him recover from every nasty thing that happened. She'd given Crazy Harry a taste of his own fire. She'd kissed him. She'd left a note for him. He really wished he knew what it had said now.

She'd said he was a Muppet. Obviously. Was that a bad thing?

She'd called him Newsie. He knew a few of the others already did, but in her voice, it sounded different. He tried that out on his tongue, whispering it into the darkened room. "Newsie." He found he didn't mind it.

He stared up at the stained ceiling for hours, wondering if she was going to come back to the theatre, and realized after a while that thinking about being crushed, or pummeled, or nearly eaten, or laughed at, didn't frighten him in this state of mind. The idea that this young woman, this gypsy Gina, might not come back… He shivered.

Eventually he pulled a throw blanket over himself; it had cute bunnies printed on it, and the rats ridiculed him for it, but it was warm, and soft, and comforting sometimes. Sighing, the Newsman set his glasses carefully on his nightstand, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Two nights passed without incident; the Newsman paced backstage, from time to time walking a circuit of the entire area from the wings to the green room, but saw no sign of the enigmatic young woman. Every time the back door opened, he hurried to see who it was, and more than a few curious stares met him on those occasions, but not once in those two nights did he see any sign of her.

The audience was packed on Friday night, less so on Saturday, and by the Sunday matinee, the initial excitement over possible ghost sightings had faded, and the size of the crowd was back to normal: two rows full in the center of house, scattered patrons around the rest of the room, and the odd straggler in the balcony. The two old hecklers returned and pelted Fozzie with even more wisecracks than usual, not having forgiven him for refusing to fend off the spooks for them. Everyone stopped jumping at shadows, and life returned more or less to normal backstage. Whenever the Newsman passed Piggy, she turned up her snout with a dainty _"Hmf!"_ at him, but after the first such incident he ignored her.

Apparently this irked the mercurial pig. Sunday afternoon, as he was sitting by himself at a small table in the green room dining area, sipping a lukewarm and bitter coffee with too much fake creamer mixed in, Miss Piggy paused on her way past. "Ah-ha-ha…so, Newsgeek…I want to say I'm actually very impressed. You're certainly taking my rejection a lot better than Gonzo did. Was I too harsh on you?" She batted spangly lashes at him.

Scowling, he turned away. "No."

She trotted around to face him again. "Well, you are quite the stoic." When this provoked no reaction, she frowned, then tried a different tack. "So, I hear you have a secret admirer! That must be very sweet. Perhaps she'll help you get over me?"

The Newsman shook his head, dejected. "She hasn't come back. Maybe she'll never come back." Suddenly wanting to talk to someone, he looked up at Piggy. "What'll I do if she never comes back?"

"How should I know?" Piggy grumbled. "But if you think I'm gonna leave out comfy robes and margaritas for you, think again, buster!"

"It was a daiquiri."

"What?"

"It was a daiquiri. Not a margarita."

"Oh who _cares?"_ Piggy shouted, making him cringe. "Hmf!" She flounced away, irritated at people who would just _not_ take a hint.

Lowering his head again, the Newsman sighed. His luck wouldn't hold much longer; at some point a news bulletin would come in, and he'd have to go on, and what would happen if Gina wasn't there? _Well, what always has happened,_ he thought. _You'll be subjected to something horrible and possibly painful, and no one will give it a second thought._ Someone tapped his shoulder. He looked up to find Rowlf standing there. He and the dog had rarely even spoken to one another, not from any enmity; they simply didn't work together much.

"Hey, uh, Newsie," Rowlf said. "How'd you like to help us out tonight?"

"Help you out? How?"

He wasn't sure how he wound up agreeing. The next thing he knew, he was laying on the operating table, the announcer for Veterinarian's Hospital droning overhead about the whole place going to the dogs, a blue sheet tucked up to his square chin. "Where's the next patient?" Rowlf asked.

"Right here, Dr Bob."

Rowlf patted the Newsman's prone form with heavy paws, making him groan. "Hm, he looks pretty bad. What's wrong with him?"

"We don't know – he hasn't had anything fall on him in three days!" Piggy said.

"Then why are you consulting me? This man needs a shrink!"

"Oh, Dr Bob, his secret admirer only shows up when something's going to fall on him! I think he's loooovesick!" Janice said.

"Nonsense! He's not lovesick, he's hungry!"

"What do you mean?" Piggy asked.

"He's just a _glutton_ for punishment!" Rowlf laughed. The Newsman shook his head, frowning.

"Like, what should we do?"

"I prescribe a hard hat!"

"So nothing else hurts him?"

"So nothing hurts _us!_ You know what happens when this guy gets onstage!" Rowlf said, putting a white plastic hard hat over his surgical cap. The lamp over the operating table suddenly crashed down, knocking the breath from the Newsman, causing the nurses to jump aside.

Trudging offstage, hope rose briefly; he looked all around, but saw nothing, no sign of Gina, no sign of anything left behind for him. Not even a bottle of ibuprofen or a heat pad for his sore abdomen. Kermit was busy tending to the set change; the Newsman stopped Scooter as he scurried by, but before he could even get a word out, Scooter shook his head. "Haven't seen her. Sorry."

Depressed, he headed downstairs. He didn't get far before he heard the tapping sound of the newswire going off. Oh, no. Glumly he took a deep breath, ripped the sheet of copy from it, and ran back toward the stage. Kermit saw him coming, and yelled, "Cancel that, push the newsdesk out now!" Quickly Scooter and Beau shifted his desk out and brought down the backdrop of world maps and time zone clocks, and he hurried out just as it was in place.

"Here's a Muppet News Flash!" He glanced at his copy sheet. "Stocks fell on Wall Street today –" Oh, no! Quickly he continued, "But were buoyed up again by gains on the European markets." He glanced up, startled by the appearance of a large, heavy-looking, wooden set of stocks, the kind colonial criminals had been locked in to punish them for stealing, right overhead. It seemed to be floating. Gulping nervously, he checked his notes again. "Ah…Experts say that while global stocks could continue to rise incrementally," (he glanced up once more to see the heavy stocks drifting slowly up) "They would, inevitably, plunge again -aaaaagh!" THUMP.

He managed to stagger offstage under his own power, weaving a bit. Kermit nodded at him. "Good job, good job. Okay, Swedish Chef up next!" The Newsman grabbed Kermit's desk briefly to avoid being bowled over by the ebullient Chef, then slowly continued through the backstage area, heading for the lower stairs. As he paused at the top of the stairs, not sure he could make it down without falling, Scooter suddenly appeared at his elbow.

"Hey, Newsman? This just came for you." He accepted the small box Scooter handed him; the gofer ran off before he could say thank you. Upon opening the box, he found a hissing fuse on a round black ball.

"Aahhh!" Without thinking, he lobbed it downstairs. Immediately an explosion went off, followed by choked cries of protest from below. Oops…

Trying to ignore the pain in his head, he hurried out the back door onto the loading dock. A fish smacked him in the face. Staggering back, removing his slimed spectacles, he heard Lew Zealand's apologetic laugh. "Heh heh! Sorry Newsdude! I was practicing with my new mackerel!"

The Newsman held onto the railing at the edge of the loading dock, frustration and disgust nearly overwhelming him. A fin tapped his hand. He squinted down to see a large fish popping its wet eyes up at him. "Hey buddy," it gurgled, "didn't I knight you once?"

"Oh, leave me alone!" the Newsman shouted, kicking at the mackerel. Unable to see clearly enough, he missed, his shoe hitting the railing instead. Pain shot up his foot, and he clung to the rail, gasping.

"Come on, Your Highness. Let's go practice somewhere else," Lew murmured to the fish, and they left. The Newsman sank to the edge of the concrete dock, head hurting, foot hurting, glasses still dripping, smelling the stink of ocean sludge in his sensitive nose. He pulled out his handkerchief, holding back tears of anger, and tried to clean his lenses. A soft white cloth folded into a small bundle appeared in front of him. Confused, he peered at it, then looked up. Gina Broucek stood in front of him on the broken concrete of the alley, holding out the cloth.

"It has lens cleaner in it already," she said. They stared at one another a long moment.

Finally he said, "You came back." He couldn't see her clearly without the glasses, but he knew the voice. He was amazed she'd actually shown up.

"Do you…do you want me to go?"

"No, no! Please stay," the Newsman spoke up hurriedly. He accepted the cleaning cloth and polished his glasses in a rush.

"Um, this is for you, too," she said, offering him a plastic cup with a lid and a straw and a tiny paper packet of aspirin. He set the glasses back on his face, and took the proffered items.

"Thank you," he said. "What…what is it?"

Gina shook her head, not meeting his stare. "The drink? It's a blueberry energy drink mixed with cola." She shrugged. "I know it sounds weird, but that's what I felt drawn to at the fountain drink machine at the Zippy-Mart down the street."

"That's…that's my favorite," the Newsman said, astounded.

"Oh, good. I thought maybe I was just jumbling up things in my head."

He sipped it experimentally, nodded approval, and downed the aspirin. "Thank you very much! I wasn't sure…when you didn't come the last two days…"

Gina flashed a small smile. "Well. There you go. Nice seeing you again." She began to walk away. The Newsman scrambled to his feet.

"Wait! Ah…would you…would you like to come in and meet everyone?"

"Oh no, that's okay," she said, and gave him a tiny wave of her fingers. "See ya."

Although it hurt to use his injured foot, he tried to come down the steps after her; startling him, she picked up her pace, practically running around the corner. The Newsman limped after her, dismayed. When he reached the corner of the building and looked around it, she was gone. He stared along the alley a minute, then looked at the drink still in his hand. Shoulders drooping, he slowly returned to the loading dock and climbed the steps to the back door. Why had she run off? Was she afraid she'd upset him? Almost unconsciously he touched the spot on his nose, imagining he could still feel the kiss.

He sat back down on the edge of the dock, looking up at the clear afternoon sky. Birds flitted between the wires overhead, and a light breeze rustled the bits of trash along the alley; spring had sprung in the city. He sipped the drink again, the sweet blueberry flavor fresh to his tongue, wondering what he'd done to send her scurrying so quickly. Maybe she only felt sorry for him, and that was all. Maybe she thought he was ugly? Uncertainly he touched his glasses, thinking of Piggy's insults. Even as a younger man, he'd known he was no Robert Redford, but he'd always thought his strong chin and determined nose gave him a certain dignity. Why had she run? It was as though she couldn't bear to be around him too long.

Gonzo opened the back door and saw the Newsman staring up at the sky, sitting on the edge of the dock. "Nice day, huh?" Gonzo asked, coming out to stand by him. The Newsman only nodded once. Gonzo noticed the plastic cup in his hand.

"Oh, cool! Is that number three in the Collector's Series of Drink Cups of Famous Stuntmen of the World?" Gonzo exclaimed.

The Newsman looked vaguely at the cup. "Uh, yeah, I guess it is."

"That is soooooo cool! I have the first two already! Where'd you get it?"

"You can have it," the Newsman said, handing it over.

"Oh, wow! Are you sure?"

The Newsman shrugged, turning away. Gonzo took a sip from the straw. "Blueberry Mega Rumble with Ginseng Lemon Cola Crush! That's my favorite!" he exclaimed, starting to head back inside, then stopped and touched the Newsman's shoulder. "Uh, you don't have anything contagious, do you?"

Receiving only a scowl in reply, he hurried back inside, humming the jingle to Blueberry Mega Rumble Drink happily as he went. Sighing deeply, the Newsman sat outside until it was time to go home.


	6. Chapter 6

Monday was the weekly "dark day," the only day with no shows running at the Muppet Theatre. Tuesday night, Scooter bustled around turning on lights and unlocking doors as usual. When he switched on the lights in the green room, a mutter came from the couch below the landing. Scooter leaned over the railing and saw the Newsman groggily sitting up. "What are you doing here? Did you stay here yesterday?"

"I went home Sunday, but the rats were throwing a tailgate party. Couldn't sleep," the Newsman mumbled, bleary-eyed, his tie undone and jacket rumpled.

"Oh," Scooter said. "College hoops, huh?"

The Newsman put his glasses on and gave the boy a puzzled look. "You follow sports?"

"Oh, sure! I love the Golden Gophers!" Scooter came downstairs and made a quick pass through the kitchen, turning on the lights and ventilation fans – a necessary requirement anytime the Chef might be cooking.

Wearily, the Newsman rose from the couch and went to fetch the change of clothes he'd brought, hoping to beat everyone else to the shower. Going into it and shutting the door, he laid his things aside, stripped, and stepped into the old tiled stall. He'd barely slept. Beauregard had been kind enough to let him back in before locking the theatre Sunday evening, and he'd spent the better part of that night sitting in the green room in the dark, replaying the events of the past few weeks over and over in his mind. Monday he'd decided not to even bother leaving the building, and wandered the back areas of the theatre, wondering where Gina was, what she was doing, what she might think of him. He'd lain on the couch all last night, shifting position a thousand times, unable to find any comfort, any relief from his thoughts. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd done a show barely awake. He turned the knob for the water. Nothing happened.

He tried again, turning the knob back and forth. He tapped the showerhead. No water. Cursing it under his breath, he gave it a solid whack with the flat of his palm. "Ow!" something groaned. Startled, the Newsman looked up to see a giant, elephantine thing with green fur glaring at him over the top of the stall. Its nose was sticking through the hole where the showerhead was supposed to be.

He screamed; it howled; he grabbed his towel and clothes and glasses and fled.

Before curtain, Kermit noticed the Newsman's less-than-professional appearance, and told him, "Hey, try to find time to shave before you get here, please?" He was gone before the Newsman could react.

Rats at home, _things_ in the shower here…the Newsman was growing tired of having no space of his own. Even his so-called dressing-room was chock-full of mops and cleaning bottles and piles of rags. Standing just offstage as the low murmur of the audience filtered through, he noticed that bizarre scientist and his skinny googly-eyed assistant looking out through the curtains at the side of the proscenium. "No, I don't see her. Rats! I thought for sure there wouldn't be one tonight."

"Mee mee mee meep, mee mee," Beaker said, sounding smug.

"Yes, all right," Honeydew sighed, as the pair made their way back into the wing. "What did we agree to? A day without an experiment?"

"Meep _mee! Mee_ mee mee," Beaker argued.

Honeydew stopped, crossing his arms. "Oh, we agreed no such thing! It was _one_ day! You should be ashamed of yourself, Beakie." As they passed the Newsman, Honeydew exchanged a look with Beaker, and they both startled snickering. "Oh, good evening, Newsman. Tsst-stt-stt!"

"Meep mee," Beaker added, waving lightly. The pair sauntered off, still giggling. The Newsman had the disturbing impression they were laughing at _him._ Humiliated, he blushed. Had _everyone_ heard how Gina had run away? How she didn't seem to be able to look at him? Grimly, he walked over to the pile of crates under the dressing-room balcony and sat down on one. Obviously, judging by her Muppet comment a few days ago, she didn't really want to be associated with him. He was too short, too nearsighted, too odd-looking, too…well…too _Muppet_ for her. She was only delivering nice things for him because she felt sorry for him. Well, he didn't need that!

He paid no attention to the chaos all around as acts went on or left the stage. Suddenly Kermit was yelling at him. "Newsman! Yeah, you! You're on!"

He hadn't even heard the wire go off. Steeling himself for more of the usual, he grabbed the news copy from the frog and ran to his desk onstage. Whatever it was tonight, he would bear it. He wouldn't accept any more reluctant favors from the young woman who clearly regarded him only with the pity one gives a beaten dog. "This is a Muppet News Flash…Police tonight are searching for a William Tell impersonator. This man is said to be roaming the city, setting _pears_ atop people's heads, then shooting them off with arrows! While authorities say the man, who escaped from the Merry Men Rest Home for Chronic Admirers of Legendary Heroes, is _not_ considered particularly dangerous, it is feared he may accidentally hurt someone."

A large arrow abruptly thunked into the Newsman's forehead. As he fainted, he dimly heard someone else onstage saying, "Oh dear! Sorry…my mistake…" And then sounds of struggle as policemen wrestled the archer away.

"There…that should do it. Um…thanks for letting me back here."

"Oh, no problem. We haven't had a regular costumer since Hilda retired; it's nice to have someone around who knows how to use a needle and thread," Kermit said.

"Okay. Bye."

Carefully the Newsman reached up, touching his head. The hole the arrow had left had been finely stitched closed again. Blinking, he slowly sat up, finding himself backstage. Kermit nodded at him. "Feeling better?"

The Newsman put his glasses back on, looking around. Satisfied that his newscaster was among the living, Kermit patted his shoulder and went back to the desk, calling for the closing number dancers to get onstage. There was no sign of his benefactor. The Newsman made his way over to Kermit, feeling dizzy. "Where is she?"

"You just missed her. She knocked on the back door right as you went onstage. She waited right here with a sewing kit, and patched you up when they brought you offstage, and then left," Kermit said. "Hey! You big things! Quit bumping the scenery!"

"She left?"

"Listen, Newsie, I don't have time right now, okay? I'm glad you're all right." One of the larger monsters bumped another, who in turn knocked against a fake tree that went crashing down. "Hey! Hey, watch where you're stomping!" the frog cried, ignoring the Newsman. The tree hit another piece of prop foliage, which in turn took out a chunk of foam wall, which another monster dodged clumsily, stumbling into the pretty singer who was their guest tonight, who clutched at Sweetums' fur, who chortled and whirled her aside, plowing her into the foam wall on the opposite side of the set, which came down…and so on…

Turning away, the Newsman slowly went out back. Link and Strangepork were standing on the loading dock, debating plain dried corn versus dried corn with molasses. "I am telling you, the molasses is with too many calories, you know?" Strangepork argued.

"Oh, but it tastes so good," Link said, looking as though he was about to start drooling. They spotted the Newsman as he trudged past. Link chuckled. "Hey, Doctor. I didn't get a good look at the shooter. Was that William Tell or Cupid?"

The pigs snorted laughter. The Newsman glowered at them, but didn't bother to respond. He walked down the steps to the alley and along it, trying to stay straight upright while he was within eyesight of them, but once he turned the corner he leaned on a wall, breathing hard, feeling sick. He doubted either of those porkers could handle even half the things that had happened to him. He could still hear their mocking chortles, though he couldn't make out any words. When he reached his own door at last he had to pause again, leaning on it, before he could open it.

"Oh…you're back," a rat said glumly. Ignoring it, he trudged through the living/dining room, kicking aside crumpled soda cans and a stack of empty pizza boxes. The rat paced him. "Hey, could you refill your change jar soon? We ran out of pizza before the late game last night!"

The Newsman bent suddenly, yanking the rat into the air by the collar of its varsity jacket. He snarled at it, "Touch my change jar again and I'll be stuffing _all_ of you into it!"

"Hey! Hey! Whoa! Easy, buddy!"

"And clean this mess up! _Now!"_ the Newsman roared at it, blowing the rat sideways. He tossed it down somewhere and stomped into his bedroom. Behind him, he heard the rest of them complaining.

"Sheesh, Rizzo, what's wrong with _him?"_

"Ah, you know, probably got up on the wrong side of the broadcast booth or somethin'. Come on, better do what he says. Grumpy people are no fun at all…"

At least the water worked, even if he couldn't get enough hot water for a decent shave. He cleaned up and dropped into bed exhausted, hearing the vacuum cleaner running in the next room, with thunks and growls as it sucked up who-knows-what on the dirt-colored carpet remnant. His last thought before going under was, _Where the heck did they get a vacuum cleaner?_


	7. Chapter 7

Wednesday night came and went with the usual friendly anarchy in the theatre, but no News Flash. On Thursday night, the newswire went off, and no sooner had the Newsman dashed onstage with the bulletin when Scooter heard a knock at the backstage door. Opening it, he found the odd young woman with auburn hair standing there meekly, in a simple gray sweater over slim jeans instead of the trenchcoat. "May I come in?" she asked.

"I think so, but lemme check," Scooter replied, and hurried over to Kermit. "Hey, boss? That fan of Newsie's is here. Should I let her in?"

"Oh boy," the frog sighed. "Sure, let her in." When the young lady joined him a moment later, worriedly peeking around the masking drapes onto the stage, he told her, "Gee, it'd sure be nice to see you around without knowing something bad is going to happen to our newscaster!"

Gina blushed. "I'm sorry. I don't make it happen."

"No, I know that. Listen, I've been meaning to ask you: what did you mean last week when you said we were all Muppets? Do you have something against Muppets?" Kermit asked, watching her closely.

"I…no! No, not at all!"

"Well then why –"

Just then a howl and a scream came from onstage. The Newsman barreled past, not seeing either of them, and all but dove downstairs. Hot on his heels bounded an enormous wolf. Gina took a large T-bone steak from a bag, and let out one of the loudest taxicab whistles Kermit had ever heard. The wolf braked, looking back. It saw the steak, and sniffed the air excitedly. "Yeah? You like that? Yeah? Go get it!" Gina shouted, throwing the meat towards the rear exit. The wolf raced after it, banging open the back door as it went; thinking fast, Scooter yanked the door shut and locked the deadbolt.

As the young woman pulled a hankie out of a pocket and wiped her hands dry, Kermit nodded. "Good one. Very nice. Did you know it would be a wolf this time?"

Gina shrugged. "I figured that or a lion, but I wasn't sure."

"So you were saying about Muppets?"

"Oh, I love you guys! You have the best show in town!" Gina assured him; feeling a bit smug, Kermit allowed himself a moment to enjoy that. "No, I don't have anything against you. Or Newsie. Any of you."

"Then why did you run off?" Gina shook her head, looking down, and Kermit waved in the direction the Newsman had fled. "I've heard from several people now that he's been acting very upset lately. He's had stuff drop on him or knock him down or just make fun of him for years, and he's never been irritable before. This is all since you showed up."

"Oh no," Gina said, casting a desperate glance in the direction of the lower stairs. "Oh, no. I should never have said anything. I should never have left that note for him!"

"Note? What note?"

"I have to go," she said, backing away. "I'm really sorry. Thanks again. Bye."

Before anyone could say a word more, she ran to the exit, unlocked it, and went out. Apparently the wolf had vanished as oddly as it had appeared, as Kermit didn't hear any commotion from outside. Shaking his head, he went back to his desk, making sure Rowlf was onstage with his piano in the right spot for his lighting.

In the broom closet, the Newsman huddled behind the mop bucket and listened, certain at any second the wolf would be ripping the door off its hinges. He stayed there, not daring to check even though he heard the usual bustle and conversation in the green room. For all he knew, the creature was having a cup of java while it waited him out. Eventually, Beau came in and promised him he saw three pigs, but no wolf.

Coming upstairs cautiously, he encountered Scooter. "Oh, your friend was here," the boy told him brightly. "She pulled a neat trick with that wolf."

"She was here? Where is she now?"

Scooter shrugged. "Don't know. She left pretty fast. Hey, at least it didn't eat you, right?"

The Newsman nodded as Scooter brushed past on whatever errand he pursued. She'd left again? Why was she doing that, when she no longer had to sneak around? _She must really dislike Muppets,_ he thought, depressed. He went to find Kermit. The frog was ushering Fozzie onstage for his routine, but as soon as he turned back to his desk, the Newsman approached. "Kermit? I need to talk to you."

"Uh, sure, Newsman, what is it? Hey, you missed your secret admirer…although I guess she's not a secret anymore."

"Kermit, I think she…I think she's anti-Muppet." It pained him to make such an accusation; he'd always hated prejudice of any kind, avidly following the Civil Rights movement years ago. As a person of differently-colored skin, he'd wanted to join the march on Selma, but at the time he was still living at home, and his mother wouldn't allow it.

Kermit shook his head. "No, I asked her about that. She said she loves Muppets. She said we're the best show in town." The frog preened.

Discomfited, the Newsman asked, "She said that? She doesn't have negative feelings towards us?"

"No, no; she said she doesn't, and I think she was telling the truth."

"Then why…then…" The obvious answer struck him. "So…it's just me she can't stand." He felt as though something else had fallen on him.

"Why do you think she can't stand you? She shows up whenever you get hurt because she's worried about you," Kermit pointed out, frowning. Fozzie was getting some loud boos; distractedly Kermit looked out to see if he should end the act early before the bear was pelted with canned tomatoes again.

"She runs. Now that I know who she is, she runs!" the Newsman said, growing more depressed by the moment.

Kermit sighed. "Look, Newsman…look, give me a minute, okay?" He signaled for the band to play Fozzie's trademark flourish and for the curtains to close, and hurried in front of them to announce the closing number. The Newsman waited, his mind filled with dark thoughts, frowning at Fozzie when the bear clapped him on the shoulder.

"Aaaah, I knock 'em dead every time! Every time!...Don't I?" The bear gave him a beseeching look, but the Newsman was in no mood to be supportive, and shrugged his paw off. Dispirited, Fozzie trudged away. As pigs in tutus hurried onstage and the band struck up a delicate Renaissance tune, Kermit returned, shaking his head in resignation, sure the entire number would shortly become something far from ballet. He seemed to have forgotten about the Newsman.

The unhappy journalist was about to simply leave when a thought occurred to him, and he tapped Kermit's shoulder to get his attention. "Kermit, if she comes back…tell her I don't need anything."

"What?" Confused, Kermit frowned at him.

Speaking low and clearly, the Newsman repeated, "Tell her I don't need anything. I don't want any of her pity. Tell her she's not obligated to try to help me. I don't want it."

"Uh, okay, if you say so," the frog agreed.

Grimly satisfied, the Newsman went downstairs to gather up his coat. The evening had turned chilly. Bundling up in the russet overcoat the same shade as his hair, he didn't bother saying good night to anyone, and was the first out the back door.

Unfortunately, the wolf was waiting for him.

The Newsman had been staring at the same cold cup of coffee for almost an hour, sitting in the green room away from everyone else, his left shoulder and right leg dully aching from last night's fight with the wolf. It hadn't eaten him, but it had beaten him around pretty strongly, and he knew it was lucky he lived close by or he'd never have managed to outrun and escape it. At least it hadn't returned tonight. He'd eaten something microwavable and shown up at the theatre early with a bitter cup of coffee from the corner convenience store, sat down, and stayed there. He tried very hard to keep his mind empty, simply listening passively to the chatter around him as other performers came and went. Nothing broke through his silent mood until he heard Scooter shouting his name.

He rose and went upstairs, trying to at least pretend some enthusiasm for his job. Reminding himself that as a journalist he had an obligation to report the news, he took the News Flash bulletin from Scooter and forced himself to run onstage with it as if it were something truly important instead of the usual absurdity. "And now a Muppet News Flash… The ShadyCo Telephone Company today recalled two thousand of its model 2200-M telephones. Industry reports claim the telephones have been seen suddenly becoming animate and devouring everything in their immediate vicinity." He scowled at his notes; honestly, who could believe this kind of trash? "Luckily, says the company, most of the affected phones were still in the factory; only one unit was listed as already having been sold, so the threat to the public is extremely minimal." Suddenly he realized something was eating his notes; looking up, he discovered the red telephone on his desk hungrily chewing up the paper. Startled, he let go of the paper, and the phone tossed it aside, snarling at him with enormous spiky teeth. It lunged at him; he shoved the mic in front of it, and with a growl it quickly chewed that and threw aside the remains. "Uh…anyone? Is this thing still under warranty? Aaaagh!" The Newsman fled when the phone leaped at him, its cord trailing after like a stringy tail.

It caught him backstage, gnawing on his right shoe. Screaming, he kicked it off, but it pounced again, dragging him to the floor. Everyone scattered, leaving him to fight it off alone. He spotted a broken stage flat nearby, grabbed it and began beating the phone over the receiver with a board that ripped off the flat. Snarling loudly, the phone kept coming, dodging another hit and clamping its teeth around his right arm. The Newsman screamed in fear and pain, trying to pry loose its mouth.

"I'll help you, Newsie!" Beauregard yelled, rushing over. He aimed a fire extinguisher at the phone, and with a sudden _foosh_ there was white dust shooting all over the phone and the Newsman both. The Newsman coughed, trying to shake the phone loose; it groaned and slowly dropped off his arm. Covered in smoky, swirling dust, shaking and unable to see with the stuff making his eyes tear up, the Newsman crawled to the newel post of the dressing-room stairs and hauled himself to his feet. He looked back at the phone, which shuddered, rolled over, and dropped its receiver to the floor. When it didn't move again, the Newsman looked at Beau.

"A…a fire extinguisher?"

"Well, I figured it was a hot line," Beau explained.

That made as much sense as anything else around here. Shaken, his hair mussed and dusted and clothes ripped, the Newsman slowly went down to his dressing-room. No one looked twice at him. He closed the door for some privacy, sank to the floor, and leaned against a shelf of scrub brushes, panting. He didn't know whether Gina hadn't come, or whether Kermit had told her to go. No one had said anything about it, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know which was the case. It didn't matter, did it? He didn't need her pity. He sat there, nerves jangled, his arm hurting badly where the thing had tried to chew him up. He lowered his head to the shelf, breathing in the faint smell of wood oil soap, his eyes stinging.

He didn't need anyone's pity.


	8. Chapter 8

"Scooter, what's with the turkey?"

The gofer paused by the bird, a plump thing sitting on one of the crates near the short flight of stairs to the rear exit. "Oh, uh, I think the Swedish Chef's using it," he replied.

Kermit shook his head. "He doesn't have very good luck with turkeys."

Scooter shrugged. "Yeah, well, try telling _him_ that! Anyway, it's just been sitting there. Not as active as some of his other ingredients."

"I see that," Kermit nodded. The turkey in question looked dully at him, then suddenly sneezed. "Eeesh," Kermit muttered, jerking away from it. "I think this bird is sick!"

"Maybe it's just allergic?"

"Allergic to what? What would a turkey be allergic to?" Kermit shook his head, resuming his study of the night's schedule.

"A-choo!"

"Geshundteit," Kermit said absently. "Hey Scooter, go see if Piggy's ready. Curtain in two minutes."

"Gobble, gobble," came a high voice behind him.

"Enough out of you," Kermit said, looking back at the indifferent bird. "I have a show to run here!" He looked around; Scooter had disappeared, and Kermit hadn't heard his acknowledgement to go get Piggy. Kermit shrugged. Oh, well. His gofer had rarely let him down – typically, only when his overbearing rich uncle was around, and that certainly wasn't the case anymore. Suddenly a glass-shaking shriek sounded from above. Recoiling, Kermit looked up to see Piggy race out of her dressing-room, slamming the door shut behind her. "Piggy? What's wrong?"

"Oh, Kermie! There's a crazed turkey in my dressing-room! It – aiiigh!" She jumped aside as a turkey wearing a green jacket popped out of the room, its head darting around until it saw Piggy. It hopped toward her, and she fled downstairs. "Aaaiiiiigh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Kermie!"

"Gobble-obble?" the jacketed turkey asked, following with a puzzled look. Piggy and Kermit stared at it. The original turkey looked at it, made a low _glub_ sound, and hopped down from the crate to greet the newcomer. The green-jacketed bird looked at it, then at Kermit. "Obble-urk?"

"What the hey?" Kermit wondered. The first turkey gobbled at the second, then trotted away. Miss Piggy squealed as the other one approached them, and Kermit saw the round spectacles perched wobbly on its head. "Oh no. Oh, don't tell me," he muttered.

"What the heck is that thing?" Piggy demanded. One of the stagehand pigs wandered by, saw the turkey in a jacket, and stopped to look at it. The turkey looked back, shivered once, and sneezed.

"Gobble- _choo!"_

"Gobble-oink?" the pig wondered, suddenly sprouting feathers and wattles atop his snout. The two turkeys stared at one another, making quiet, confused noises.

With a sinking heart, Kermit answered, "I think that thing is Scooter…and I think it's contagious!"

"Aaaaiiigh!" Piggy shrieked again, and dodged around the birds, running upstairs. "Well keep 'em the heck away from me!" Her dressing-room door slammed behind her.

"This is terrible!" Kermit cried. "All right, you – both of you – just go over there and stay there where you won't sneeze on anybody! Go on! Stay there!" The Scooter-turkey and the pig-turkey obediently shuffled into the corner next to the crates. Wildly Kermit looked around. "Where'd that other one go? Oh, no; we're starting!" He wavered between yelling for someone else and going onstage; the theme music was already playing, the house lights dimming. "Argh!" Frustrated, he hurried onstage to do the opening.

Between numbers, Kermit searched backstage for the sick turkey but turned up nothing; Beauregard and Sam helped look in other areas but came up empty-handed as well. Alarmed, Sam asked Kermit, "How bad _is_ this? Should we quarantine the theatre?"

"I hope we won't have to do that," Kermit sighed. "Just keep looking!" He barely looked up as a couple of Whatnots trotted past to begin a song about hope being a thing with feathers. Kermit checked on Scooter and the pig. "You guys feeling all right?"

"Gobble-obble?"

"Gobble-snork-snork-snork."

Kermit jumped back as Scooter sneezed again. "Yeesh. Let's hope whatever it is, it's over soon before we all turn into poultry." Shaking his head, he looked out at the stage, and nearly had a panic attack. "Oh no! Someone get that bird off the stage!"

The gentlemanly Muppet was singing, "…And sore must be the storm, that could abash the little bird, that kept so many warm," when he turned upstage to gesture dramatically and saw the large goggle-eyed turkey staring at him, inches away. Startled, he didn't even have time to react before it gobbled and sneezed on him.

Temporarily oblivious, his singing partner continued, "I've heard it in the chillest land, and on the strangest…sea," she trailed off as she saw first her partner suddenly flapping huge gray wings, then the original turkey poking its head curiously at her. "Ah…ah…ahem. Yet never, in extremity –"

"A-gobble-chooooo!"

"Gobble-obble-ee?"

The audience applauded; Kermit wondered if it was because they liked turkeys, or because the song had abruptly ended. He grabbed Beau by the arm. "Get those turkeys off stage!"

"Kermit, I'll admit I don't really understand modern poetry, but do you really have to call them that? I didn't think it was _that_ bad," Beau responded. Kermit shoved him.

"Just get them off of there! And don't let 'em sneeze on you!" he yelled.

The viral turkey flapped and fled, quickly ducking behind the scenery. Beau chased it, then the other two, confused by the wild circles the birds ran around the stage. Kermit shuddered, watching from the wing. Up in their box, the two old hecklers chortled with glee.

"Well, now we can say they've _really_ had some turkeys here!"

"I thought that was _every_ act!"

"Ho ho ho ho!"

Beau managed to round up the Whatnot turkeys and stow them next to the others, but the canny originator of the disaster remained at large. "I don't believe this," Kermit fumed. "We need to find that turkey! Everyone, find that mad bird! This is getting ridiculous!" Sam tapped Kermit on the shoulder; when Kermit turned, he shuddered at what he beheld. "Oh Sam, not you too!"

The eagle sported a large blue wattle and a spread tail of enormous proportions. "Kermit, I just…gobble…want to gobble…that this is the most _gobble_ and _un-_ gobble show I have _ever_ gobble, obble, awk!"

"Over there, with the rest of 'em!" Kermit ordered. Sulkily the turkey-eagle joined the growing crowd backstage. Fozzie came up, eyes wide at the gaggle of turkeys.

"Oh my gosh, Kermit, this is getting outta control!"

"Yeah, no kidding! Fozzie, what are we going to do? We need to catch that bird and stop this thing spreading any further!" Kermit felt ready to pull his hair out, had he been cursed with such an ugly feature.

"I believe I may have a solution," Bunsen offered, coming over with Beaker in tow. Beaker carried some kind of giant net with wires and lights flashing all over it. "This, Kermit, is the Muppet Labs Automated Viral Poultry Apprehending Device. With this, we should be able to catch your renegade bird without putting anyone else in jeopardy."

"Wonderful! Do it!" Kermit agreed.

"Come, Beaker. We shall lure the recalcitrant fowl by scattering yummy birdseed," Bunsen instructed, tossing out handfuls of the stuff as he walked onstage. Beaker followed, holding the net contraption in front of him, looking around nervously. To the audience, Bunsen said, "Hello! Welcome to Muppet Labs, where the future is being made today! It seems we have a dangerous fowl on the loose. By luring him out with my patented Chocolate-Flavored Birdseed, we shall distract him sufficiently for this amazing Automated Viral Poultry Apprehending Device to do its work. Now come, Beaker, turn the device on and let's get out of the way."

"Mee meep," Beaker said, twisting dials on the net until it beeped and blinked steadily. He hurried over to hide with Bunsen behind a lab table full of chemistry apparatus. Neither of them noticed the small pinkish head that popped up around a low bank of computers, just behind them.

"Just wait, Beaker. No barnyard bird can resist my delicious Chocolate-Flavored Birdseed! All my tests show it to be the preferred flavor." The turkey darted its skinny head all around the computer bank, coming closer to where the scientists hid. Bunsen's attention was focused on the middle of the stage, where the trap waited. "Oh, I can't wait to see this! Did you know, Beakie, that the domestic turkey is the most unintelligent of all birds?" Beaker felt a poke on his arm; turning his head slowly, he saw the turkey staring at him, and jumped.

 _"_ _Meep!"_

"Beaker, shhh! You'll scare it away!" Bunsen said, still watching the trap.

"Gobble- _choo!"_

Startled, Bunsen looked around to find his lab assistant much the same, but with floppy red wattles hanging over both sides of a beak where his nose had been. Bunsen recoiled, his hand going over his mouth in surprise. Beaker looked at the turkey. The turkey looked at turkey-Beaker. Both of them looked at Bunsen.

"Gobble-obble!"

"Meeep-gobble!"

"Oh! Oh!" Bunsen ran for it, the two turkeys flapping right after him. Suddenly the Apprehending Device snapped shut on top of Bunsen. "I'm not a turkey! Stop! No!"

The two turkeys chorused: "Ah-ah-ah- _gobbleobbleobble!"_

"Geshundteit," Bunsen said. "Gobble."

Kermit groaned. "Clear the stage! Clear the stage! Get that bird!"

"Which one?" Beau asked, confused.

"All of 'em!"

The Newsman hurried over, a paper in his hand. "Oh, no…news set!" Kermit shouted, and behind the closed curtain a couple of pigs scurried to fly down the news backdrop and push the desk out. The Newsman gave Kermit a nod and ran on, paying no attention to the crowd of turkeys as Beau corralled the newest two off the stage. Weird things were always going on; it wasn't his concern. Focused on his presentation, he arrived at his desk, checking the news copy.

"This is a Muppet News Flash! Alarming reports of an outbreak of _turkey flu_ are spreading around the city! Everyone within the broadcast area is warned to avoid suspicious-looking poultry." At last, a serious story! Briefly he wondered if it was as dangerous as H1N1. Looking sternly up from his notes, he continued, "Symptoms resemble those of the more common influenza virus, and may include sneezing, congestion, and fever." A movement to his left distracted him; he glanced over to see a large turkey staring up at him. "Ah…ahem…Turkey flu is highly contagious, and any contact with infected individuals could lead to –"

It sneezed on him.

Disgusted, he jerked away, and dropped his notes. Flustered, he tried to pick them back up, and discovered his hands were feathered. "Gobble-awk?" he said, immediately horrified at his own voice.

"Turkey flu?" Kermit groaned.

"Wow! Hey Kermit, who're the birds?" Gonzo asked, sidling up to him.

"Gonzo! They're not birds! - Get that turkey back here!"

Harried, Beau chased the Newsturkey off the stage. Gonzo stared at the yellow turkey with brown plaid feathers and glasses perched on its beak. "Uh, Kermit? Did the Newsman get a nose job?"

"It's turkey flu!" Kermit yelled. "It's an epidemic! Gonzo, help me catch that turkey!"

"Which one?" Gonzo wondered, staring at the considerable group of fowl squeezed into the backstage area away from Kermit's desk.

"That one!" Kermit shouted as the viral turkey ran past, gobbling wildly.

"I'm on it!" Gonzo promised, shooting off after the bird.

Sweetums plodded through on his way to the stage, saw the turkeys, and stopped. His eyes grew huge. "Oh, _wow!_ Lunch!" Squawking and gobbling, the turkey flu sufferers scattered as he swiped huge claws at them.

"Sweetums, no! Oh good grief! This couldn't possibly get any worse!" Kermit cried. It took him several minutes to persuade the monster to not eat his coworkers, and then the abashed troll began rounding up all the birds he had frightened away. Meanwhile, Fozzie hastened through, jumping away from every turkey he encountered, so frazzled by the chaos that he forgot his opening joke.

"Wokka-wokka-wokka! Hiya folks! Well, its…it's some night, huh? It sure is…aaaaah…"

"Gobble!" came a ragged voice from the box seats.

"Yeah…gobble-obble!"

Fozzie's spirit sank as he looked up. "Oh no. Not you guys too!"

Kermit noticed someone coming up the rear stairs. "Oh, Gina, you can't be here! Didn't I tell you last night the Newsman said he didn't want your help anymore? Besides, we have kind of a…kind of an epidemic going on here," he sighed.

"Oh, that explains it," the young woman said. Kermit saw she had a filter-mask over her nose and mouth. She touched it, nodding at Kermit. "I wondered what this was for, but something told me I should wear one."

"Well, good. Got any more?"

"No, but I brought this," she replied, opening a huge bag of unpopped popcorn and dumping it out on the floor. Taken aback, Kermit tried to come up with a question or a protest, but the milling, excited turkeys shoved between him and their visitor. "This too," she added, sprinkling something from two different pill bottles over the corn. The turkeys began pecking up the kernels.

"What is that?" Kermit asked. Fozzie trudged off the stage, dejected, stopping as he saw all the birds gobbling up the feed.

"Hern de hoo der gobble-obbly urn," the Swedish Chef remarked as he passed. He waved a cleaver triumphantly at Kermit. "Chop-chop der hugenbird!" He dragged a large turkey with him, heading onstage.

"Oh good, good," Kermit replied absently, relieved.

"It's vitamin C and echinacea," Gina told him. "I'm guessing it'll speed up the recovery. Did you say _turkey_ flu?"

"Yep, that's right," Kermit said, watching the birds snark up all the corn. Gina poured more out, again sprinkling it with the vitamin and herb. He heard the Chef's music begin, and wondered if he ought to warn the unobservant cook about the viral bird he'd just taken to its presumed execution. Then again, given the Chef's record with live animals, he was pretty sure he could predict the outcome.

"Well, I hope it helps. I felt like I ought to bring you a lot of it." Gina looked over the turkeys curiously. "I know what you said last night, but this feeling of danger was just so…so strong…um, where's Newsie?"

"Uh, well, he _was_ right here with the rest of 'em," Kermit said, checking the features of each bird. Gonzo appeared, laughing triumphantly.

"Ha ha _ha!_ Got it!" He held up the scrawny neck of the original turkey.

"Gonzo, be careful! Turkey flu is highly contagious!" Kermit said, backing away a step.

"Oh, I know. I had it as a kid," Gonzo said.

"That must've been awful," Fozzie said, gulping as he looked at the frenzied, pecking turkeys.

"Oh, no! Best three weeks I ever had!"

"That explains a lot," Kermit muttered. "Uh…Gonzo…that looks like the foul fowl that started it all."

"It is! Isn't that the one you told me to go after?"

"But if _that's_ the original bird, then who – eesh!"

"Newsie!" Gina cried, running onstage. After a few seconds of terrified gobbling and loud protests by the Chef, the Newsturkey came running into the backstage area, closely followed by the Chef waving his cleaver, and then Gina. She dodged the swinging knife and placed herself between the angered Chef and the terrified turkey. "No, stop it! Stop it, Chef! That's not a turkey!" she yelled, but the Chef was determined, taking several swipes at the brown-and-yellow bird and shouting unintelligibly. Suddenly Gina planted her feet in front of him and yelled at the top of her lungs, _"Foo Hoos de Flugendegus de Booden und eet Efolbegus de Boogan Fol de Boo!"_

Shocked, the Chef stopped, lowering his cleaver, staring at Gina instead of the Newsturkey. "Where'd she learn to speak Mock-Swedish?" Gonzo murmured, impressed.

"Where'd she learn the Chef's real name?" Kermit wondered.

"Der turken nooooo is guben der chop-chop!" Gina scolded the Chef. "Eet no is turken! Is Newsie!"

Puzzling it out, the Chef pointed to the Newsturkey, who was slowly peeking around Gina's legs. "Turken…ist der hoobden der tumpen-tumpen?" he asked, miming things falling from above with his hands.

"Ya! Is Newsie!" Gina nodded. The Chef looked at the Newsturkey, beginning to laugh. "Boodengus de noooo chop-chop!" Gina added, and the Chef nodded, chortling.

"Turken-newsie!" he said, beckoning to the afflicted Newsman. Warily the turkey edged out from behind Gina, and the Chef tickled his wattles. "Ooh hoo! Ooh hoo hoo hoo! Newsengobble! Hoo hoo hoo!"

"Hey Chef, you might not want to do that," Kermit tried to warn him. "He's extremely –"

"Gobble- _chooo!"_

"Contagious," Kermit finished, sighing. Stunned, the Chefturkey stood there trying to peer from under his poufy hat. The Newsturkey started laughing; it sounded more like strained gobbling.

"Um, if it's okay with you, I'm taking him home to recover," Gina said, picking up the poultryfied Newsie.

Kermit shook his head, looking around at the turkeys. "You might as well. I don't know how we're even going to close the show tonight."

"Uh, Kermit, if I may make a suggestion?" Gonzo asked. "You know I _am_ a good dance instructor for things besides chickens…"

"Great. You're on," Kermit sighed. "I hope the effects don't last long. A turkey revue every night is going to get old fast."

"Oh, it should only take a couple of days, if they keep eating that vitamin corn," Gonzo promised. Startled, Kermit glared at him.

"I thought you said you had it for three weeks?"

"Well, yeah…but I kept getting my friends to sneeze on me. It was fantastic!"

"Eeesh," Kermit moaned. "Fine! Just get 'em all out there and dance – all except that one! Lock him up!" As Gonzo stuffed the original offender in a slatted crate and rounded up the others, the frog turned to Gina. "You might want to keep him isolated. I've heard of fast-moving, but this thing is ridiculous."

"I'll get him well as fast as possible," she promised. The Newsturkey looked up at her, relieved by her intervention, but wondering if he looked less offensive to her as a large domestic bird. She stroked his backfeathers, making him gobble softly. Gina sighed. "I'm really sorry. Come on, let's get you home." She paused. "Mr Frog? Do you know which building he lives in?"

"It's just Kermit. I think his is the second one on the left if you go down the alley, before you hit the main street, but I have no idea which apartment," Kermit said, waving a flipper in the direction of the back exit.

"Direct me, okay?" she asked the Newsturkey. He nodded, deeply embarrassed by the entire situation. Yes, take him home, let him crawl under the covers and stay there a week or so. He didn't particularly want her to see how shabbily he lived, but also didn't like his odds in reaching his apartment safely on his own right now. Ashamed, he allowed Gina to carry him in both arms out the back door.

Shaking his head, Kermit looked back to the stage, where Gonzo was cheering on a line of dancing turkeys while the band played a jazzy version of "Turkey in the Straw." Not one of the birds, he noticed, was anywhere near on beat.


	9. Chapter 9

The rodents scattered as soon as Gina opened the apartment door. At least, the Newsman noted, they hadn't trashed the place again since he made them clean it up. Gina set him on the carpet and looked around. "So…all yours, huh?" she asked.

Glumly, with a soft gobble in reply, the afflicted Newsman looked around as well, seeing as he imagined she must: secondhand tweed sofa facing the third-hand TV, a small table and chair next to the kitchenette, dull tan walls enlivened only by a framed print of Jacek Yerka's "Illegal Light-Making." Dim illumination came from the two ceiling lamps and a streetlight below outside the single shaded window. He'd tried keeping houseplants once, but they'd died without enough sun. Cautiously Gina stepped in, checking through the kitchen cupboards until she found two shallow cereal bowls. She ran water into one, using the filter tap on the sink. Small noises in the kitchenette made her look around quickly; the Newsman spotted a rat peeking out at her from a cupboard up high. He glared at it, but it looked just as curiously at him, and he realized the rodents weren't going to give him any respect like this. Not with feathers and this ridiculous floppy thing hanging off his nose…er, beak. Gina poured some of the corn into the other bowl, treating it with the vitamin C and echinacea, and brought both bowls over to him, setting them on the rug.

"Here. Try some of this, okay?" Another skittering noise drew her attention; she rapidly glanced from the table to the low counter of the kitchenette to something wriggling behind the TV. "Uh…Newsie? I think you have rats."

He sighed. It came out as a gobble.

"Do you have a thermometer anywhere?" she asked him. He gestured with one wingtip through the bedroom door, and waited until she was out of sight to peck at the corn experimentally. He heard a startled squeak, and Gina popped back out of his room. "Okay…that's a big rat," she gasped.

"Hey, sister, you're no tiny tina yourself!" Rizzo barked back at her, appearing in the doorway. He saw the Newsturkey and trotted over. "Oh hey, you brought us dinner!"

"Gobble!" the Newsman protested, doing his best to look threatening. It didn't work as well as it usually did.

"No. This is Newsie. He lives here," Gina corrected, warily watching the rat.

"What? No, no, no! The nerd who lives here is taller, and wears glasses, and has yellowy skin, and…uh…" Rizzo peered closely at the Newsturkey, who in turn glowered and snapped at him.

"He's not a nerd, and I prefer to think of his color as golden," Gina said firmly.

"Uh. Okay. What…what happened to him?" The other rats were gathering around, keeping their distance from the stranger, but curious about the bird.

"He has turkey flu."

"Flu!" Rizzo exclaimed, jumping back. "He's got the flu and you brought him _here?"_

"He lives here!" Gina argued. The Newsturkey gobbled agreement, feeling completely mortified.

"Just keep him outta _my_ way, sister!" the rat declared, huffing off.

Gina shook her head. "Come on. Let's see how bad the fever is."

As she lifted him onto his bed, he had to admit he was feeling terrible, and not just from the sheer humiliation of it all. He felt disoriented and a little overheated, although he knew the apartment was somewhat chilly; the super had turned the furnace off last week because spring had arrived, despite the still-shivery nights. "Don't bite this," she cautioned him, carefully placing the end of the thermometer under his tongue. He sat there, waiting, embarrassed for her to be moving around his tiny bedroom looking at the few personal belongings he'd placed there to relieve the depressing claustrophobia of the narrow space.

Gina read his framed Bachelor of Arts degree from the Columbia U. School of Journalism, looked at the photos of Cronkite and Jennings from charity dinners he'd attended just to meet them, paused before the other Yerka print he owned – one of the few expensive items here – and studied it a long while. The title was "Double Life," and the classically surrealist painting depicted a tiny shack on an island in the center of a huge walled reservoir overflowing with dark water…but also the duplicate tiny shack, far below it at the bottom of the reservoir, surrounded by lush gardens and transparent sea creatures undulating past. The colors of it, murky green with barren sandy rocks surrounding the high walls of water, had always calmed him. She stood there as he sometimes had, studying every tiny detail of the painting. He wondered if that meant she also liked it. It was the only colorful thing in the room.

Finally she stepped back to the bed and checked the reading on the thermometer. "Owch! One hundred two!" She gave him a querying look. "I'm assuming that's high, even for you?"

She meant, even for a Muppet? Discouraged, the Newsturkey nodded. Gina leaned over and gently pulled down the thin blanket and sheet of his neatly made bed, displacing him, then tucked them up around him. He sneezed, and hurriedly looked up at her, worried, but the mask seemed to be protecting her so far. He could tell by the way her cheeks went up that she smiled at him. "Cute bunnies, huh?"

He felt heat in his face, ashamed, but she simply unfolded the throw blanket and tucked that around him as well. "You need to stay warm. This apartment is ridiculously cold. You should complain to the super."

The Newsman shrugged. It wouldn't do any good. The rats had tried. They complained more than he did, actually.

"Awww," one of the rats said from the doorway, drawing annoyed looks from both the Newsman and Gina. The rat, a scrawny thing with a Yankees ballcap, giggled and ran off. "Hey guys! You gotta see this!" They heard whispered commotion in the main room. Just as a group of rodents ran up to the bedroom door, Gina strode over to it and slammed it in their faces. "Ow," came the lone voice from outside it.

"You also," she told the Newsman, returning to his side, "need peace and quiet for a few days. I'll bring the food and water in here for you, and you shouldn't have to deal with them." She pushed her hair, which kept sliding down, back over her shoulder. "I'm sorry you have to deal with this. Just try and get some rest." She frowned apologetically. "I don't know whether it's safe for you to take aspirin like this."

Better safe than sorry, he thought, shaking his head at her. "Gobble-obble."

"Right." She pointed a thumb at the door. "Uh, I'll be right back, okay?"

The Newsman shivered, a chill suddenly going through him. Yes; definitely flu-like symptoms, on top of the indignity of the feathers and beak and ridiculous voice. He huddled down into the blankets. In the other room he clearly overheard Gina laying down the law:

"You'd all better leave him alone until he recovers. No loud noises, no barging in, no waking him up, no eating the corn! Got it?"

"Well what're _we_ supposed to eat? We cleaned out the 'fridge this afternoon. He never buys enough groceries!"

Silently, the Newsman fumed.

"Here's a thought: go earn some money and buy your _own_ groceries! Just don't eat that corn. It's medicine…and he's already touched it, so unless the rest of you want to catch what he's got…"

"Ee-yuck!" Rizzo spat.

"Oh my gosh I'm gonna die," another rat moaned.

"I mean it. And trust me boys…you don't want to mess with me." A long pause; he wondered what she was doing to threaten them. "Got it?"

"Eek!"

"Yeah, yeah, it's cool!"

"We got it! We got it!"

Gina reentered the bedroom, a satisfied smirk clearly visible even in her gray eyes. She laid the bowls of corn and water on the floor near the bed. "There you go." She stood looking down at him; he couldn't tell what she was thinking, but her smile faded. "Okay, um…I have to go. You get some rest, and eat some of that when you feel you can. It should help. I'll, uh…I'll be back tomorrow afternoon to check on you, if that's all right?"

He nodded, sneezing again before he could stop it. Gina paused, as if about to say something more, then simply gave him a nod. "All right. Well…see you." She closed the bedroom door softly behind her. He heard the front door open and close, and then a few quiet murmurs from the rats. What had she said or done to make them suddenly respectful? More tired than grateful for the respite, he settled further under the covers, laying his head on his pillow, annoyed that he couldn't properly take off his glasses. He shook his head and managed to dislodge them so they lay next to him, and nudged them out of the way with his beak so he wouldn't accidentally break them if he rolled over in his sleep.

He didn't know what to make of any of this. She'd brought enough of the corn to treat the whole theatre, so she wasn't concerned about him alone; yet she'd only offered to bring him home, not the others. He was still picking up a feeling of distance from her; she'd barely touched him the whole walk home or up the stairs, and her tucking him in had felt more nurse-like than motherly. Not that he could recall his mother tending to him when he'd been ill much; if anything, she'd been annoyed with him for inconveniencing her. Disheartened and dizzy, the Newsman sank into the aging mattress. That was it. Gina felt obligated. Surely he was an inconvenience to her. Hadn't she said she worked at another theatre? It must cut into her schedule to run over and do things for him, and if her theatre was even half as hectic as the Muppet Theatre, she must be splitting up her time pretty badly. _As soon as I have my voice back, I'm telling her to get back to her life,_ he decided. She was still acting out of pity, obviously. He didn't need or want that from anyone.

"Gobble," he muttered to himself, closing his eyes, hoping all of this would soon pass so he could go back to his old life, the one where things fell on him but he didn't worry about anyone's motives in being nice to him, because no one would care. That life, at least, he was used to.

The Newsman felt slightly better when he awoke. Filtered light from the tiny bedroom window told him it was full day; he began to sit up but was seized by a sneezing fit. "Gobble- _choo!_ Gobble- _choo!_ Gobble- _choo!"_ So he was still afflicted. Great. Checking his form, he noticed his fingers visible beneath an overlay of feathers, and by touching them to his face he was relieved to discover his distinctive profile had reasserted itself…although his hair felt like feathers still. He looked down at the bowl of corn kernels, thinking _Yuch._ When he climbed out of bed, however, a wave of dizziness forced him to climb right back in. With a groan, he wrapped himself in the blankets once more, and lay there wishing the pounding would stop. Then he realized the pounding was in his temples, his own pulse sounding too loud to his fever-addled brain. His door opened a crack; he glared down at one of the rats peeking in.

"Gobble-obble-awk!" he yelled at it. With a squeak, the rat vanished, his door shutting again.

Great.

Some time later, a soft tapping sounded on his bedroom door. He cleared his throat, tried to speak, gobbled again. Gina opened the door to see him scowling, frustrated with his condition. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you," she said. She was wearing another paper filter-mask.

The Newsman shook his head, beckoning her in weakly. "Well, you look a little more like yourself. How are you feeling?" she asked, cautiously approaching his bed.

He shook his head at her…slowly, so as not to slosh his brain around any more than it already seemed to be doing. She brought the cleaned thermometer out and checked his temperature again. This time she just stood there, looking at the few items on his nightstand, while they waited for the instrument to get an accurate reading. She picked up one of the books neatly held between two small brass bookends on the nightstand. "'The House at Pooh Corners'?" she asked.

Embarrassed, he shrugged. He wouldn't meet her gaze. She set it back in place and took out another. "'Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72'? I wouldn't have figured you for a Hunter Thompson fan." Again, he could only shrug, staring down at his feathery hands, wondering how much more of this mortification he'd have to take. She kept checking titles, speaking them aloud: "'Edward R. Murrow: Good Night, and Good Luck, a Biography', with a lot of dogeared pages… Dickens' 'Bleak House'… 'Breaking News' by Robin MacNeil… and Leo Leonni's 'Fish Is Fish'." She replaced them all the way he'd had them, and looked down at him curiously. "You have some interesting tastes there, Newsie."

He couldn't tell her they were favorites from different periods of his life, and he felt comforted by having them all close at hand, to be able to sample whenever he had a bout of insomnia. He just sat there, feeling groggy and extremely unhappy, looking up at her with the thermometer sticking out of his mouth. "Oh…sorry," Gina said, taking it out and checking it. "It still says almost one hundred. Are you dizzy?"

Slowly, he nodded. She frowned. "Okay. Hungry?" Another nod; she picked up the bowl of corn, and he shook his head, waving it off, then had to sit very still a long moment. _Ow…ugh._ "Oh, no, obviously you can't deal with this stuff. I'd say that's a good thing, though, right? I brought you some soup. Hang on, I'll go heat it up."

She left the room. The Newsman tried weakly to pull his pillow up against the wall so he could sit up, leaning on it. Even that took effort and fumbling. She returned carrying a bowl of soup with a spoon, a napkin, and a steaming mug of something with a citrus smell to it. Gently she placed the bowl in his lap and handed him the spoon. He nodded thanks at her, then tried to scoop up a spoonful of the golden soup. His fingers were shaking lightly, and they felt too thick, and the feathers kept getting in the way. After two frustrating failures, Gina took the spoon from him. "I'm sorry. I know this must really be awful for you. Will you let me help you?"

Oh, how he hated this. But at the smell of the broth in the bowl, his stomach rumbled and his mouth watered. He gave her a reluctant nod, and she carefully brought a spoonful of the soup to his lips. It tasted amazing: rich chicken broth liberally laced with garlic and lemon and sweet bits of corn, and his eyes actually closed as he tasted it. He couldn't recall the last time he'd even had something fresh-cooked or homemade. "Is it okay?" Gina asked, looking concerned. Oh, yes. He nodded, ready for more, and accepted spoon after spoon of it from her until she showed him the empty bowl. "Good, I'm glad you liked it. That was one of my grandmama's recipes. She called it her Winter Cold Soup, but I figured it applied fine to your flu. Now try this, okay?"

She helped him drink some of the tea in the mug, which seemed to be some sort of herbal concoction, all floral and orangey. When he leaned back, unable to take in any more, Gina flashed a smile at him. At least, he thought she did; hard to tell around that mask. "Tired?"

He was, actually. He could barely keep his eyes open. "All right. Get some rest," she told him. He wasn't about to protest. He felt her tuck the blanket back over him, tugging it up to his shoulders as he leaned against his pillow, falling asleep sitting up. As he drifted off, he thought he felt something else, a brief, wet touch on his nose. He sniffled, and whatever it was vanished.

Soft laughter awoke him. Peering blearily at his window, he couldn't see any daylight, although there was a lamp on in the main room, and his teddy bear night-light gave him just enough illumination to see by in the bedroom. Sitting up, he suddenly felt itchy all over. Gentle scratching quickly gave way to a frantic scraping everywhere. Bedraggled feathers fell off him like dry leaves after a leap in a leafpile. He brushed them away, annoyed, and kept scratching…until he realized he was shedding what had been his clothes in ragged sheafs. They felt as though they'd stuck to his skin and then dried out. He stumbled out of bed and went into the tiny bathroom to finish shedding them, then turned on his hands and hair, scratching and rubbing every bit of feathering off himself. Disgusted, he turned on the shower and stepped in.

After a long scrub and steam, he emerged in his new plaid robe to find a rat peeking into the bedroom again. Could he not have a _minute_ of privacy? His intended protest came out as more gobbling. The rat shut the door, and he heard noises in the main room. Gina opened the door. "Um…are you decent?"

"Gobble," he said tiredly, brushing the discarded feathers off his blankets.

She entered. "Oh! You got rid of the feathers. Well, good. How do you feel?"

He blinked at her in confusion. Surely it was hours later; why was she still here? When he didn't respond, she bent over and felt his forehead. "You're still pretty warm." He pointed to the bath, where steam curled out of the open shower. "Oh, gotcha. Hang on, I'll bring you more rose zinger." She hurried back out. Bewildered and feeling dizzy again, the Newsman sat on his bed, pulling the throw blanket over his bare feet. On second thought, the room felt cold; he adjusted it to cover most of him as he huddled there. He tried setting his glasses back on his nose, immediately relaxing somewhat when he could see clearly. Gina returned with more of the herbal tea he'd drunk earlier. "Here you go." She didn't offer to hold it this time, setting it on his nightstand. At least he'd avoid the humiliation of someone nursing him again.

There wasn't anyplace else to sit, so she gingerly took a spot on the far end of his bed, watching him as he sipped the tea. The rat who'd peeked in earlier timidly approached the bed; he scowled. They knew perfectly well he'd declared the bed off-limits to all rodents. "Oh, Newsie, this is Rhonda," Gina said. "I don't think you and she have actually ever spoken."

He threw her an incredulous look; why would he speak to them any more than he absolutely had to? He certainly hadn't agreed to their moving in. They were at best barely tolerated roommates. Rhonda the rat looked up at him, scared, then back at Gina. "It's okay," Gina assured her. To the Newsman she said, "Rhonda and I have been talking. She helped warm up your soup –" He felt queasy. "And she helped me with the dishes afterward. She says _she_ at least is willing to pitch in with chores in return for some food. How does that sound?"

The Newsman glared at them both. "Gobble!"

Gina shook her head at the rat. "He's not feeling well. Maybe you should ask another time?" she suggested quietly. Nodding, the rat scurried off. Gina brushed her long straight hair back, and the Newsman found himself briefly mesmerized by the way it slid over her shoulder, like a million strands of auburn silk. "Do you want anything else?" she asked him. "More soup, or anything I can bring you?"

He sneezed, startling himself. "Ah. I forgot." She left the room once more, returning immediately with a box of tissues and a small trash can. "Here." He nodded thanks at her again, wondering why she'd bothered to stay the evening. He could look after himself. She stood by the side of the bed, nervously massaging her own hands, not meeting his gaze. Finally she said, "Your friend Kermit asked me if I had anything against Muppets. I just want you to know I don't, not at all. And…and I understand if you'd prefer I didn't come around to the theatre anymore. I should have realized you must already be close to someone there." Surprised, he could only stare at her. She still wouldn't look at him. "I'll, uh, I'll be back tomorrow afternoon to make sure you're okay, and after that I'll leave you alone. I left my phone number with Rhonda, if you think of anything you need I could bring you. Get better soon, Newsie."

Before he could think of a thing to reply – not that he'd even be able to – she bent over, her hair brushing his face, and quickly kissed his forehead through her mask, and swiftly walked out.

The Newsman sat there, stunned, hearing the front door open and close again. She'd called him Newsie again. She'd _kissed_ him again. She thought he must be close to someone at the Muppet Theatre…? Movement at the foot of his door caught his befuddled attention. Rizzo stood there, grinning at him.

"She liiiiikes yoooooou," he sang mockingly.

The Newsman beaned him with the tissue box.


	10. Chapter 10

When Gina arrived at approximately two o'clock, the Newsman had already dragged himself out of bed, showered, shaved, dressed, and fixed himself a cup of the tea she'd left in the kitchen. He wasn't normally a tea drinker, especially not fruity floral stuff, but it did seem to help. When she knocked, he was able to call out, "Come in," without gobbling, although his throat felt sore and his voice was ragged.

"Oh," she said, looking him up and down as he sat on the sofa. He looked better than he felt, but he wouldn't admit to it. "Well…I see you're all better. Good. That's good." She stood just inside the door, fidgeting. "Any fever?"

"I'm fine," he lied. His stomach was churning. He hadn't felt up to going out for food, and nothing was left in the apartment.

"Oh, um. Okay." Gina shrugged, embarrassed. "Silly me. I thought you might still be feeling weak, so I brought over some takeout from Kubla Khan's House of Stir-Fry and Bananas, but if you don't want it…"

He was already drooling. Trying to maintain some semblance of manners, he stood up, but too quickly, and lost his balance. Gina caught his arm, and they stared at one another. "Hah…so…not so good yet. It's okay," she said. Feeling flushed, the Newsman sat back down, and she joined him, edging onto the corner of the sofa and placing several wondrous-smelling white takeout cartons on the low coffee table. "Hungry?"

"Thank you," he managed, and she smiled. She wasn't wearing the mask today. Alarmed, he almost reached out to touch her face. "Uh…shouldn't you…"

"Oh, it's okay. I went down to the El Cheapo Medico Shot Clinic this morning and got inoculated for turkey flu." She had turned pink. "Um, hey, guys? I brought stuff for you…moo goo gai cheese and fried rice with, um, more cheese."

More rats than the Newsman had suspected even frequented his apartment poured out of nowhere, seizing the cartons with excited squeaky chatter. In seconds they'd spread their haul out over the carpet in front of the TV and had turned the box onto some trivia game show. "No loud noises," Gina warned, and Rizzo bumped the elbow of the rat nearest him.

"Hey! She said keep it down for the geek! What'samattayou? Sheesh!" Taking the remote from his companion, Rizzo turned the TV volume down about two notches.

"You brought them food?" the Newsman asked, confused.

"I brought _you_ food. It would be rude to leave your roommates out, wouldn't it?" Gina asked, opening the remaining cartons. She held one up in each hand. "Mongolian beef with bananas, or General Nose chicken?"

"Uh," he mumbled, taken aback. "I don't think I've ever had either."

"Go with the beef, then. It has hot peppers…good for your sinuses." She flashed a smile at him.

The bananas turned out to be spicy as well, and provoked another sneezing fit, but at least he wasn't gobbling. "Thank you," he said hoarsely, when their immediate rush of hunger was sated, and both of them were picking at the contents of their cartons, "but you should stop doing this."

"Oh," Gina murmured, looking away.

"No, no, I mean…you can't possibly afford this. You've done so much already."

"It's okay, really. I don't mind," she replied softly, with a shrug.

"Don't anymore. I don't want…I don't want anyone to do more than they really have to. I don't want anyone feeling obligated for me." He tried to keep his voice gentle, a difficult thing for him even when in the best of health; he could hear how gruff he sounded.

The Newsman noticed Rizzo gesturing for his attention. When they made eye contact, the rat made motions at him as if handing him something. What the heck? Give him…? Oh. Give _her._ Give her what? He shot the rat a puzzled frown, and Rizzo sighed, and made a motion with one paw moving away from his mouth. _Tell_ her. Tell her what? Shaking his head with a frustrated groan, Rizzo took a fortune cookie from a pile of them and broke it open. When he read the fortune he laughed, and ran over to hand it to the Newsman. The note said: _You will have nothing unless you tirelessly seek the truth._

"What's your fortune say?" Gina asked, not having seen any of the transaction.

"It's silly. Who believes these things, anyway?" He glanced over at her, saw her abashedly not looking at him, and was suddenly unable to stop sneezing. Excusing himself, he went to find the tissue box. When he could finally breathe freely through the entire length of his nose, he came back to the main room. The sofa was empty.

He looked around, although there wasn't anyplace a person could hide in his apartment. Rizzo and a couple of the male rats stood in the middle of the room, glaring at him. "What?" he coughed at them.

"You are _pathetic,"_ Rizzo stated. "Com-pletely!"

Immediately furious, the Newsman picked up a mostly-empty carton to chuck at them. "Hey, hey, don't throw food! It's too valuable to waste!" Rizzo screamed, getting out of range quickly.

"Out!" he yelled, though it hurt his throat.

"Don't know why she bothers with you!" the rat taunted. The Newsman did throw the carton then. Rice bounced all over the rug.

 _"_ _Out!"_ he shouted louder, hearing his voice rip like a brittle piece of paper. The rats fled. Panting, fuming, the Newsman stood in the center of the room, feeling what little recovery he'd made ruined, tired, hoarse, worn out. Dejected, he looked around at the remains of lunch. What had he said? Why had she left? He had to sit down again, suddenly exhausted.

She hadn't even said good-bye.

He must have fallen asleep right there on the sofa. He woke up to the sound of humming, and forced his eyes open, focusing slowly. _Gina?_ No; it was that female rat. Rhonda. All the food mess had been cleaned up, and the little rat, wearing a maid's outfit, was humming as she wiped down the coffee table with a tiny rag. When she saw him staring at her, she stopped, set her tiny paws on her tiny hips, and glared at him.

"You," she squeaked, "are an _idiot."_

She ran when he threw the can of dusting spray at her.

He spent all of Monday hanging around the apartment, absently watching news shows but not really absorbing any of the information they imparted; he went into the kitchen a few times and looked at the box of tea, but didn't fix any of it; he lay on his bed in his pj's and robe and stared at the ceiling. He didn't bother getting dressed. None of the rats showed so much as a whisker all day. Maybe they'd abandoned him too. Good. He didn't want anyone around.

Tuesday afternoon, he felt certain the flu was entirely past, and prepared for work as usual. Still no rats. No food left, either, so maybe they'd stay away this time. He checked to make sure he had enough cash in his wallet to get something to eat on the way, and went out the building's front entrance, walking along the street to a vendor's cart. The pita sandwich was nowhere near as good as the Chinese food Gina had brought him. He pushed that thought out of his head, getting a bland cup of coffee from another vendor and continuing on to the front of the Muppet Theatre, trying to refocus his thoughts. Had everyone else recovered? Had anything bizarre happened while he was at home in bed? More bizarre than usual, that is. Had any news bulletins come in? Had someone else delivered them? If so, had anything fallen on them – or was he the only one who suffered for his work?

Distracted by such thoughts, he didn't see the bicycle messenger until it was too late. A kid hawking the _Post_ stepped back from the curb to avoid a taxi splashing mud up from the gutter, yelling, "Extra! CDC says turkey flu rumors false! Health scare over! Extra!" The bike messenger swerved to avoid the news kid, and clipped the Newsman instead.

He swore quietly, shredded lettuce, mustard, and coffee dribbling down his jacket and tie. The bike messenger pedaled on without so much as a "sorry." The paperboy stared a moment, then barked a laugh, and continued slowly down the sidewalk, calling out the headline. Fuming, the Newsman tossed what was left of his food in a trash can. Somehow he wasn't hungry anymore. Pulling off his jacket as he strode angrily through the lobby door, he got as far as the door to the auditorium when a large monster in a tiny red pillbox hat halted him with one enormous paw on his chest.

"Sorry, buddy. Can't go in without buying a ticket, and the box office isn't open yet," the usher rumbled at him.

"I _work_ here!" he yelled. He tried to go around the usher, and once more was pushed back.

"No one in 'til showtime," the monster growled, showing very large yellow teeth. It had shaggy brown fur and seemed to be mostly mouth. The Newsman didn't recall having encountered it before.

Trying again, he insisted, "I _work_ here. Now let me through!"

"Nope, nope, no one inside yet. Not 'til showtime. Buy a ticket," the monster repeated; clearly this one had not been hired for his brains.

The Newsman looked around, but no one else seemed to be up front yet. Just this genius. He stared up at the fierce-looking beast, trying to come up with some argument it _would_ comprehend. He heard the front door open, and creaky voices; turning, he saw the two old guys who always sat in the box coming up the lobby steps. "Uh, you two…would you please tell this guy I work here and to let me through?"

Statler looked at him, then at Waldorf. "You ever see this guy before, Waldorf?"

The other grumbled, "No, no, can't say as I have."

"What?" the Newsman choked out, his voice hoarser than before.

"Nope, never seen him," Statler informed the usher, who then growled at the Newsman.

"You've seen me almost every night!" the Newsman cried. "I do the News Flash!"

"Well…can't say as I remember that," Waldorf said, looking puzzled.

"I'm drawing a complete blank," Statler agreed.

"You never had anything to draw from in the first place! Oh, ho ho ho!"

Frustrated, the Newsman tried to dodge around the monster while those old fools were distracting it. It didn't work. In seconds he was laying stunned on the cold marble floor of the lower lobby, the breath knocked out of him, coughing badly. Giving up, ignoring the two old-timers laughing at him, he got to his feet and left the lobby. Fine. He'd walk all the way around the building and go in the rear entrance, the route he usually took and what he should've done in the first place.

The alley was blocked. By a garbage truck. At this hour?

In mounting anger, the Newsman sought a way around the truck. It seemed to have broken down, perhaps earlier on its scheduled run, and no one had come to retrieve it yet. It fit so tightly in the old brick alleyway that there wasn't enough room on either side of it for him to squeeze by. No one was in the cab. The Newsman looked at his watch. He was supposed to be there for cast check-in within fifteen minutes. Sighing, he squinted at the truck, judging the height of it. He was no mountain climber, but he could see handholds all along the top of the truck. Maybe he could go _over_ it? He checked the clearance beneath it, immediately rejecting that path. Too small, and far too filthy. Speaking of filthy, the smell off that truck… Wrinkling his nose, he took a few paces back, opened his mouth wide for a deep breath of relatively fresh air, got a running leap and landed more or less on the front fender of the truck. He scrambled up it, grabbing anything he could for help in going up: the antenna, the wipers, the top ridge of the cab.

He almost fell when he reached for the topmost handhold, and involuntarily breathed in through his nose. _Eeeeyuck!_ What good was having a nose for news when it meant he also had to smell things that foul? Wincing, straining, he pulled himself atop the truck, and had to pause, panting, trying not to let a whiff of that awful reek into his nostrils. He checked the time again. Seven minutes to go. He could make it. Carefully he crawled forward, reaching for the next handhold, thinking to shift position and swing himself down slowly.

He couldn't see from that angle that the back hatch was open.

He screamed as he fell, immediately regretting it as rotten food, shreds of paper, dust from a hundred mops and who knows what else covered him. He rose, howling in disgust, spitting out _things_ and madly fighting to reach the edge of the hopper. He practically threw himself out of the hatch, landing hard on his shoulder on the bricks below. Gasping, crying, tasting horrible things, breathing worse ones, the Newsman forced himself to crawl away. He was shaking badly by the time he reached the loading dock. Scooter came out the back door right as the Newsman dragged himself wearily up the back steps. "Oh, hi, you're late," the gofer told him.

The Newsman made no reply. He started to go into the theatre, but the boy held up a hand. "Eee-yuck! You really should've cleaned up before you came in, Newsie! You smell _terrible!"_

The Newsman glowered at him, still panting. "If you," he gasped, "or anything else stands between me…and the shower…right now…someone besides me…is going to feel some pain."

"Uh…okay," Scooter said, getting out of the way.

The shower wasn't working. The Newsman stood in front of it a long minute, still mostly clothed, trying not to cry. Slowly he trudged into the green room, where immediately people complained and moved away, waving their hands in front of their noses. Giving up, he went back out to the loading dock. Fozzie came up from the alley. The Newsman looked oddly at the bear; there wasn't an ounce of trash on him. "You're…just now…getting here?" the Newsman asked, unable to breathe well.

"Oh no, I signed in earlier and went to get a soda," Fozzie said, then pulled back at the smell. "Wow! What happened to _you?"_

"How did you…how did you get past…the garbage truck?"

"What garbage truck?"

"Stuck…in the alley," the Newsman huffed. Fozzie looked quizzically at him.

"There was no garbage truck stuck in the alley. I saw one being towed away a minute ago, though." He held his nose. "Wheee—oo! You know, if you aren't over that turkey thing yet, you shoulda just stayed home!"

Dispirited, the Newsman looked away, and Fozzie shrugged and started into the theatre. "Wait…bear," the Newsman said, an idea forming. Not a _great_ idea, but an idea. "Do you have seltzer bottles?"

"Sure!" Fozzie said enthusiastically. "I got all _kinds_ of seltzer bottles! You wanna use one in your act?" He shook his head. "Ya know, I don't mind if you want to borrow one, but I don't see how that'll help do the news. _Or_ keep things from falling on you."

"No," the Newsman growled, making Fozzie nervous. "Hit me with one."

"Hit you?"

"Spray me. Please."

Fozzie scratched his head, then shrugged. "You want lemon or lime?"

 _"_ _Just spray me!"_

"Yessir, yessir, okay!"

Half an hour later, the reeking clothes tossed in the trashbin outside, the Newsman was forced to borrow something else from Fozzie: one of his terrible polka-dot ties, which he managed to make into a fair ascot. He'd been able to scrounge up a change of clothes and to find a comb for his hair, but the wardrobe room had nothing in the way of ties for some reason. He finished dressing right as the opening music started up. Hearing it, the Newsman hurried upstairs. No turkeys were in evidence anywhere, so everyone else must have recovered fine. Kermit saw him and nodded, but was busy as usual. Piggy sniffed as she passed the Newsman backstage, and wrinkled her snout. "Sheesh, Newsgeek. What is that, Eau de Lemon Compost?" He bit back a retort. His shoulder still hurt from the fall out of the truck.

Floyd paused as he sauntered past a few minutes later. "Hey, man, check out the preppy threads! An ascot! I thought 'Scooby-Doo' stopped making new episodes years ago – hah hah hah!"

The Newsman glared, but Floyd, immune, kept strolling.

All right, the Newsman told himself, so you lost yet another set of clothes. So you're hungry and tired and aching. So you still have the stink of refuse in your nose. So no one's even asked how you are. So Gina ran away again. So what? You still have a job to–

His mind snapped back. _Gina ran away again._

No, no, stop that, he thought, starting to pace anxiously. What difference did that make? Sure, she was nice, but she was only doing what she thought she had to, because of whatever weird gypsy thing it is she said she has. A sense of obligation, and pity. You set her straight, and she left, and that's that. She saw you as pathetic. Even that terrible little rat said so. She…

She _was_ nice. Very nice. With such soft-looking hair, and such delicate hands, and…

"Newsman! You're on!"

Startled, he almost stumbled going onstage, blindly grabbing the bulletin from Scooter. When he tried to announce the news as he always did, he found he'd lost his voice almost completely. "This is…a Muppet News Flash," he wheezed. Oh, no. People in the front row were frowning at him. "A new study…finds that college students…too often rely on caffeine pills…to get through their exams." He had to gasp between every few words, his throat raw and painful.

"What?" someone yelled.

"Speak up!" shouted another voice from somewhere out in the auditorium.

"Scientists have linked…these drugs…to side effects…" He paused for a deep breath, forcing sound from his mouth. Even the mic couldn't pick up what wasn't there. "Which can be detrimental…to the students' health…when the drug wears off…"

"Come on!"

"We can't hear you!"

The audience seemed to be growling at him. With another deep breath, the Newsman pulled what strength he had left into his voice, and yelled as loud as he could, "It is followed by a hard _crash!"_

"Like, you should gargle with salt water before you go onstage," Janice was saying to him when he came to. He squinted at her. Great. Another pair of glasses smashed.

"Yeah, man," Floyd agreed. "That'd stop this whole frog in your throat thing."

"I thought it was a horsey throat?" Janice asked.

"No, no, it's like an expression," Floyd corrected smoothly. They continued discussing it over him.

The Newsman lay on a pile of the old sandbags and rope coils backstage. He couldn't move his head without feeling like it was splitting open. He coughed harshly but silently, tried to ask them to leave him alone, and absolutely no sound came out. Between the garbage and the yelling, he'd completely destroyed his vocal chords. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the ridiculous argument going on right over his prone form.

 _I am a grown man. I will not cry. I might scream but I will not cry._

The discussion shifted to whether gargling with one or another brand of mouthwash tasted better. The Newsman sighed deeply, and suddenly they remembered he was there. "Oh like hey, Newsie," Janice said. "We thought you might want this back." He opened tired eyes, felt a piece of paper being pressed into his hand.

He couldn't ask what it was. He just looked at them both. Floyd said, "Oh yeah, man. Figured you'd wanna get rid of that before a certain diva sees it and goes all inter-pigalistic-missile on you, heh heh."

His head hurt too much to focus. He gave up, closing his eyes again. He heard the musicians saunter off. "'Course, everyone _else_ has seen it now! Heh heh heh!"

"Well, _I_ thought it was sweet, for sure-ly!"

Everyone else ignored him, too busy frantically getting their own numbers ready, or trying to salvage the numbers foundering onstage. Eventually the Newsman half-rose and dragged himself to a quieter corner, caught Beau as the janitor came by with a mop-bucket, asked for one of his spare pairs of glasses, watched indifferently as Sweetums' clumsy feet knocked over the abandoned mop-bucket, and suffered another coughing fit at the scent of the cleaning fluid as Piggy stepped into the slippery puddle in her new high-high heels and went shrieking, sliding across the backstage area uncontrollably, plowing into Kermit.

Just another night at the Muppet Theatre.

Beau brought him the glasses, then looked around in bewilderment. "Now, where'd my bucket go?"

The Newsman settled the new lenses in front of his eyes, feeling the scrap of paper still in his right hand as he did so. He unfolded it. The paper was the same fine, cream-colored linen as the note Gina had left him. It looked like the same handwriting… He peered closely at it, trying to see past the pounding in his skull. It was a missing piece of the note! He stared at it until the letters resolved themselves for his blurry vision.

 _"_ _I truly adore you."_

It took a minute to sink in. He had been hit pretty hard by whatever had crashed on him.

When he understood, the Newsman got to his feet. He clutched the precious little paper like a lifeboat. He lunged toward the back door. _I have to find her, good grief I have to find her, I have to find her –_

He passed out and tumbled down the back stairs. It had been a _very_ large crashing object.


	11. Chapter 11

At five p.m. the tech director called it a day. Gina took the cables they hadn't used back to the electrics closet, making sure they were coiled properly for easy retrieval, and then joined the other crew of the small theatre in sweeping up the stage. She'd done all sorts of tech work, but liked lighting best, and was pleased that for the upcoming production, she'd be the master electrician. Granted, there was only one other electrician besides the lighting designer – who was also the set designer. Small crews doing multiple tasks was one of the hazards of small, non-union theatre. But they let her design occasionally, even though she'd never been able to afford to go back to school for her MFA, which was almost unheard-of in this city. Scott the designer, a tall white-blonde version of a young Alice Cooper, slapped her on the back as they left the building. "Nice work, Gina. This is gonna be a great Scottish Play."

"No jinxes," she told him, smiling.

He grinned widely back. "No way. Hey, are you doing anything tonight? Me an' James an' the Hat were thinking about a poker game. You want in? I'm buying the beer."

Gina hesitated. She liked the guys all right; they'd at least accepted her as one of them, after only a few initial ribs about her gender. Maybe it would get her mind off her recent stupid actions if she spent more time with her colleagues, and less hanging around the Muppet Theatre. Scott continued, as they walked out the backstage door, "C'mon, it'll be fun. You've been spending too much time away from everyone else lately, and look, I can tell you've been down. Why not come out for a night?"

She sighed. She felt weary all over after a day spent crawling around the lighting grid, putting in new fixtures in order to hang another flyline. She had dust on her clothes, dust in her tightly-tied-back hair, and felt generally grungy. She was about to tell Scott she really didn't feel up to it tonight when she spied the man standing a few feet away. She stopped; Scott took another step, realized she wasn't moving, and turned back to look as well.

The man waiting for Gina was perhaps three and a half feet tall, with yellow-golden skin, reddish-brown hair, a plaid check sports jacket neatly buttoned over his dark brown tie, smartly creased gray pants and shiny Oxford wingtips. His eyes for once looked more hopeful than tired behind those conservative hornrims, and with both hands he held up a single long-stemmed red rose. When she saw him, he gulped visibly, looked from her to Scott, and seemed unsure whether to approach.

"Oh…my…gosh," Gina murmured. Scott glanced between the two of them.

"You, uh, you know this guy?"

"Scott? Tell everyone I'm sorry. I can't come tonight. I," she began to smile, "I have plans."

Scott watched, puzzled, as Gina walked slowly over to the shorter man and accepted the rose. Shrugging, he said, "Okay. See ya," and headed home.

Gina brushed the petals of the rose with her fingertips, loving the soft silkiness of it. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," the Newsman replied. He wasn't sure what to do next. "Is it…do you like it?"

"It's lovely." She wasn't sure how to ask this. "Um…do you…know much about flower language?"

"You speak flower as well as Mock Swedish?" He was impressed. "You've got me at a disadvantage there."

She could only imagine Muppet flowers gurbling at one another. Shaking her head with a smile, she said, "No, not like that. I mean, flowers can symbolize different things. Like in Shakespeare: rosemary for remembrance…"

"Oh, yes, yes," he nodded.

"Um. Well…a red rose…means one thing, usually."

He swallowed dryly, searching her face for some clue as to how she felt about that. "I know it does. I did my research." She looked surprised. Dismayed, he asked, "Should I have found out what flower means _I'm sorry I was an idiot?"_

Gina dropped to her knees so she was face-to-face with him. The Newsman was startled when she embraced him; awkwardly he put his arms around her in return. He felt her cheek next to his, felt the warmth of her body against his, her breath on his ear. Overjoyed, he hugged her tightly, but she suddenly pulled away. He thought he'd done something wrong, but then she tilted her head, her much smaller nose brushing his, and put her lips against his.

She seemed willing to stay there and kiss him indefinitely. He closed his eyes, holding her, indescribably happy.

She tasted like cinnamon. To him, that seemed absolutely perfect.

"You're right," he admitted happily. "These _are_ the best seats."

"See? Trust the techie."

Gina was sitting with Newsie above the balcony in the front-of-house lighting bay, she crosslegged on an old plywood piece which served as a walkway along the cramped space where numerous far-reaching light instruments hung to illuminate the front of the stage, Newsie next to her with his knees drawn up. He'd never been up here; in fact, he wasn't sure either of them were allowed, but Gina had persuaded him to climb the ladder up from the flyline loading rail (a landing about twenty feet above the stage floor on stage left) into the upper catacombs of the theatre. They'd managed to reach this bay without anyone onstage or in the audience noticing. The Newsman had a healthy wariness about heights, and kept well back from the opening where the lighting instruments hung; he doubted the thin chickenwire tacked up between lights would keep him from falling the twenty-five feet or so to the seats below. Gina seemed perfectly comfortable. "I explored this whole place when I was sneaking around," she told him in a low voice. "I've watched shows from up here before. Maybe next time we can bring up some drinks?"

Newsie nodded. He'd watched new acts audition from the house seats before, most memorably when Steve Martin had visited years ago, but this perspective of the stage was fantastic. He felt a little nervous as the house lights dimmed and several of the instruments near them _pinged_ , warming up as they turned on for the opening. He really shouldn't be up here. Kermit was probably too busy to notice he wasn't backstage, but Scooter would at some point. Especially if a News Flash came up. He doubted he could get back down to the stage with any promptness if he was suddenly needed. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked Gina.

In reply, she smiled at him, her eyes shining in the reflected light all around them, then leaned over to kiss him again. "Mmn," he muttered, gasping when she released him. "You're right. This is a _great_ idea."

She giggled.

She'd tucked the rose over her left ear; when she leaned close he could smell it. Gonzo had tried to convince him to use some of his "Old Mice" aftershave splash, which Newsie refused. He didn't think dusty rodent scent would be appropriate for a first date, should he be granted one. Sitting next to this beauty, playing hooky from his job, seeing a little of the sort of world she usually moved in, was amazing, and he knew the rose had been the right idea. He watched and listened as Kermit stepped in front of the red curtains to welcome everyone and introduce the first act, a silly can-can by the chickens. Gina giggled again. The Newsman looked up at her in wonder. He couldn't believe she was actually here. He couldn't believe _he_ was here, and for a second wondered if he was perhaps still feverish.

"Why didn't you go out with your friends tonight?" he whispered to her. His throat still felt sore, but he'd been sucking cough drops for the past twenty-two hours, and his voice had come back, at least.

Gina turned to look at him directly. "You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head. He'd apologized for not having read the entire note, for refusing her help, and for being gruff with her when she'd brought him food. She'd waved away his attempts at humility, told him she was glad he'd come, and insisted they go to his theatre.

She scratched the top of her head, looking embarrassed. "Newsie…I didn't think you'd want to go out with me. Ever."

"What? Why would you think that?" He was stunned. Despite his professionalism, his dedication, his perseverance for the ideals of journalism, and his stylish haircut, girls simply didn't seem interested in him. He'd long ago resigned himself to a bachelor life, and dreamed only of doing the perfect story, the Emmy-winner, the - dare he hope? – the Pulitzer which would enshrine him with the greatest reporters of the world.

"Um." She looked down, ignoring for the moment the show going on below them. "Well, like I said before, you're a Muppet…"

"I thought you said you had nothing against Muppets?"

"And," she continued, gesturing at the stage, "I've watched you guys. It's pretty clear, even from out there, that you're a very tight-knit bunch. Backstage, I was able to see some of the relationships going on. Miss Piggy and your frog boss. That blond guitarist and that furry-faced bassist. Gonzo and his chicken friend." She looked into his eyes. "Not one of you is dating an average person."

"Well, no," he responded, thinking it over. "I think that shrimp _tries_ to date supermodels. I don't think any of them have _actually_ gone hot-tubbing with him, although he claims otherwise…"

"You see?" Gina said softly.

It dawned on him what she meant. "You…you thought I wouldn't be interested in you…because you're not a Muppet?" Gina nodded, giving him an abashed smile. "Oh good grief," Newsie sighed. "Look…Gina…all my life I have been a staunch supporter of equal rights! I would never discriminate against you or any other non-Muppet!"

She stared at him. He stared back earnestly. She started giggling again.

"Did I say something funny?" he muttered, bewildered.

"Kiss me, you wonderful man," she murmured. He leaned up to do so, amazed again by the feel of her mouth on his. She didn't seem to mind how often his nose got in the way, bestowing kisses upon it as well. "You do realize that makes you one of the liberal media," she teased.

"Hmf," the Newsman snorted. "Here I thought I was one of the few trying to uphold standards of reality and normalcy on this show!"

"You and Sam," Gina laughed.

He had to protest. "Hey, don't compare me to that stuffy bird!" But she kept laughing, putting one hand over her mouth, trying hard to silence herself. A couple of heads below turned up, hearing something. Desperately Gina tried to laugh silently, bent over, shaking.

The Newsman felt somewhat affronted. "Are you…are you saying I'm too uptight? Or too liberal?"

She could only shake her head at him, still trying so hard to hold in her amusement that tears were forming at the corners of her eyes. Concerned, he touched her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Newsie," she gasped, recovering a little, "Oh, Newsie. You have no idea how adorable you are." She hugged him tightly; bewildered, he tried to return the gesture, although she was pinning his arms.

"Adorable is laughable?" he muttered.

"No, no, no. I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you. I'm really not." She released him, kissing his nose again. "I'm sorry. It's just…look at it this way. You try so hard to be serious, to do your job well…" He gave her a nod, still confused. "And all around you, the most ridiculous things happen on this show…"

"You're telling me," he agreed.

"What I'm saying is, I admire you for trying so hard all the time. Not you, nor Sam nor anyone else is ever going to make this a haven of 'normal' culture, no matter how hard you try. But I love it that you do." He searched her eyes in the glow the instruments at their feet cast back into the narrow space. She didn't appear to be mocking him.

"Do you think it's futile for me to be a serious journalist in this venue?" he asked, worried. He'd often wondered the same thing.

"No. No, it isn't futile." Gina smiled at him proudly. "It's noble."

Feeling warm all over, Newsie initiated the kiss this time. She held it a long while.

As the audience applauded Miss Piggy's Gilded Age sing-along below, Gina suddenly broke away, looking startled. "Oh no. Oh, crap."

"What is it?"

"Oh…" she let out a few choice curse words. Surprised, Newsie stared at her as she scrambled to a crouch, unable to stand upright fully in the low-ceilinged light bay. "We need to go downstairs. _Now."_

Confused, he hurried after her; she could move surprisingly fast bent over like that. He guessed techies had to be in prime condition to move agilely in all the tight spots of a theatre. She didn't bother to put her feet on the rungs of the iron ladder down, using her hands and the inside curves of her athletic shoes to slide down, and cursed again under her breath as she waited impatiently for him to navigate the ladder more slowly. She caught his hand as he hit the metal-grid floor of the loading rail. He panted after her: "I didn't know you knew words like that!"

"Yeah, sorry…techie habit. Techies evolved from sailors, you know." Together they raced down the spiral staircase to the stage floor; Gina pushed open the stage-left exit to the tunnel as quietly as she could, grabbed his hand again, and practically pulled him along. "Does that bother you?"

"No," he said, trying to keep up. "You might not want to use them around the folks backstage, though. This is a family show."

"Guess I won't show them my tattoos, then!"

"You have tattoos?" he gulped, but they were already at the back door to the green room. No sooner were they inside than Scooter spotted the Newsman.

 _"_ _There_ you are! I've been looking all over for you!"

"Sorry," Newsie panted, grabbing the bulletin from the gofer and sprinting upstairs to go onstage. Gina and Scooter followed only slightly more slowly.

Gina stopped just offstage, watching the Newsman begin his report. She noticed Gonzo at her elbow. "Oh, wow! So what's going to happen to him tonight?" the odd creature asked her.

"I can't tell," she said, trying to catch her breath. "I hope it's not too bad."

"I hope it was worth being late," Kermit muttered.

"That was my fault. I'm sorry," she told the disgruntled frog.

Sam poked her shoulder. When she turned her head to see him, he told her haughtily, "I hope you realize that keeping someone from doing their legitimate work is a serious breach of responsibility!"

With a breathy laugh, Gina nodded at him. "Oh, yes, Mr Eagle. That was terribly bad of me. Won't happen again."

"Hm! I should hope not!" Sam leaned in, curious. "Scooter looked all over the theatre for our Newsman. Just where was he hiding?"

"With me, in the lighting bay front-of-house." She hoped Kermit wasn't hearing her. She didn't want to get Newsie in trouble. She hadn't felt any sort of uneasiness earlier which would have alerted her that something was going to happen to him in a News Flash tonight, and that worried her. Maybe it just meant this would be one of the non-violent ones.

Sam looked out at the ceiling over the audience, startled. "Up there? What could possibly be of interest to a serious journalist up there?"

Gina couldn't resist. "Oh…me. Kissing him." She grinned at the eagle's instant shocked recoil, and returned her attention to the stage.

Finishing up a report on a philanthropist donating a fortune to public television, the Newsman read from his notes: "…And Mr Hunt said he'd happily give what he could, although he noted humorously, quote, 'Not even I am made of money.'" Ah, a nice safe story for a change. He moved to his next sheet of copy. "In other news today, the board of the Museum of Modern Art made their final selections…er, their final…ah…" Distracted by an odd feeling in his hands, he looked at them to find green bills of money growing out of his sleeves. "Erk!" He pulled at them, and with sharp little tugs they broke from his skin, fluttering down on his desk. More immediately grew. His hair and cheeks and neck felt tickly and odd as well, and he could feel rustly things beneath his shirt. "Oh, good grief," he moaned, trying to shake off the papery growths.

Rowlf laughed in the orchestra pit. "Hey, looks like dinner's on Newsie tonight!"

Animal popped up, eyes wide. "Din-ner?" He turned to stare at Newsie. _"Din-ner!"_

The Newsman saw him coming only just in time to flee. "Aaagh!"

Gina caught him as he ran offstage, swinging him up onto Kermit's desk with surprisingly strong arms. "Animal, no! Down! No!" Kermit yelled, but the drummer barreled over him, trying to jump up and reach Newsie, who cringed behind Gina. After a few minutes of what looked like a rough basketball game without a basketball, Floyd managed to drag the excited drummer away by his chain, although as Floyd walked off he plucked a twenty from Newsie's collar, chortling.

"Ow," Newsie groaned. He held up his hands, looking at the now-thick stuffing of money coming out of his sleeves. He could feel growths like whiskers on his chin, and every move he made rustled all over. "This is ridiculous." He hadn't felt so absurd since the time Kermit had insisted he dress in that silly Town Crier outfit for the "Robin Hood" production.

Gina stared at him, biting her lip. Gonzo started giggling. Kermit shook his head, dusting himself off and sending his nephew Robin onstage to do a song. Fozzie came over, looking the Newsman up and down. After a moment he said, "So the other day I asked Newsie for a loan. He says to me, he says: what, do you think I'm made –"

"It's been done," Gonzo, Kermit, and Gina chorused at him. Fozzie held up his paws defensively.

"Sheesh, okay! Hey, uh, hey Newsie? Can you spare a twenty for a starving comic?" Fozzie asked.

The Newsman glared at the bear. Gina took his hand, tugged a bill off it, and handed it to Fozzie. Newsie winced, but Gina immediately kissed the sore skin. Fozzie laughed. "Hey, thanks! Now I can go get that honey roll I wanted!" He trotted off happily. Gina helped the Newsman down from the desk.

"That hurt," he told her. She pursed her lips, then bit them again.

"Well, at least nothing fell on you."

"Don't even say it," he sighed. He closed his eyes, grimacing, bracing himself. "Will you please get these off of me?"

It started with Gina pulling the bills off, but quickly became a free-for-all as other Muppets heard what was happening and hurried up to get their shares of the free cash. Gina smacked as many hands and paws away as she could, with Newsie trying to block every grab: "Ow! Hey! Ow! Knock it off! Ow!" Fighting desperately, he called to Gina, "Dressing-room!"

"Good idea!" she said, and bumped aside MahnaMahna to give Newsie a shot at escape. He ran for it. Gina had to hold back a couple more of them, but finally he wound up in his cramped dressing-room, with Gina standing guard at the door. When she waved a broom around and threatened to use it, the crowd dispersed with many disappointed murmurs. She knocked on the door. "They're gone. Are you okay?"

"Just…ow…great. Ow." He yanked the bills off his skin, one by one, each separation leaving a tiny sore spot. He imagined a chicken being plucked would feel much the same. He pulled off his jacket and tie and unbuttoned his shirt, dismayed at the large cluster of bills on his chest. "Oh…" He used a few of the words she'd spoken when they were running for the stage.

Worried, Gina called in, "Are you okay? Do you need any help?"

"No," Newsie sighed. "Although some soothing lotion would be a good idea…"

"Okay." There was a long pause from outside. The Newsman rested a moment, unwilling to resume the money-plucking. Finally Gina asked, in a more normal tone, "So…do you want to go out for dinner after this?"

"Sure," he replied. "Apparently we can afford it."

He heard her giggle. With a heavy sigh, he steeled himself, took a deep breath, grabbed firm hold of a handful of the twenties on his chest, and pulled.

"Eeeyaaaaaaaaaagh!"


	12. Chapter 12

"So like I brought the party favors for all of yous, okay?" the King Prawn called out, cheerfully greeting everyone as he breezed through the backstage area, tossing cheap fake-flower leis at all he encountered.

"Hi, Pepe. How was Spring Break?" Kermit asked politely, looking up from his ledger. He was in a better mood since the Newsman had donated half his unusual windfall of cash to the theatre; it meant they could pay the electric bill well into next month.

"It was wonderful! Oh, Kermins, you should have _seen_ all the sexy womens, okay? All of them laying around on the beach in their bikinis, rubbing suntan oil on my back…" Pepe bragged.

"Uh, Pepe, why would _you_ need suntan oil?"

"Okay so maybe it was sunscreen. I don't needs to burn, you know?" The diminutive prawn strolled around, tossing the remainder of his souvenirs over the newel post to the dressing-room stairs. "So, you were very very bored without me, I know, but not to worry, 'cause I am back!"

"Actually, it's been pretty crazy around here," Kermit told him.

Taken aback, the prawn repeated, "Crazy? Ah, ha ha – you are joking I see! That's very funny, Kermins! Crazy around here! Without Pepe! Ha ha ha!"

"No; we had an outbreak of turkey flu; Crazy Harry got tied up and electrocuted; the theatre had ghosts…"

Pepe shook his head, rolling his tiny eyes. "Oh, you are funny, funny frog. There's no such thing as turkey flu, okay?"

"…And I think the Newsman has a girlfriend."

Pepe kept chuckling, dismissively mumbling a repetition of the events Kermit was telling him, but suddenly did a double-take. _"Who_ has a girlfriends?"

"The Newsman."

Pepe leaned in, touching Kermit on the arm with one tiny claw. "No, no. You see, the way you do comedys is, you make it at least _sound_ believable! Because you almost had me for a minute there, and then you had to go and ruins it, okay?"

Kermit shrugged. "Well, believe it or not, all of that is exactly what happened while you were gone."

"I do _not_ believe it."

"Suit yourself." Kermit went back to his accounts ledger.

Pepe hopped down the stairs to the green room, where a few people called out hellos and asked about his vacation. Setting himself up on a table, the prawn effusively apologized for the past lack of his sparkling presence around the theatre, but there were co-eds on the beaches of Cancun who simply would not take a "No" from poor, in-demand Pepe…

The Newsman emerged from his dressing-room, saw the small crowd in the center of the dining area around that braggart shrimp, and with a frown went to the other end of the room in hopes it would be quieter. He opened the book he'd bought today, _The Backstage Handbook,_ and started reading. The key to any good story was research. He wanted to be able to keep up with Gina; she'd expressed a desire to introduce him to her tech theatre friends, and he didn't want to appear a complete ignoramus around them. He'd be the first to admit he didn't know a board from a batten, or a double washer from a front-loading one, but he was determined to learn. He'd been in the Muppet Theatre for decades and had never bothered to learn any of the technical side of the productions. He'd had no reason to – he was, foremost, a journalist. (He was in too good a mood to think about his other basic function, that of unintentional comic relief.) The past two evenings spent in her company had buoyed him, and he studied the drawings and definitions listed in the handbook with a light heart, despite their complete unfamiliarity to him. New things normally made him anxious.

He became so engrossed with this study that he didn't hear her coming down the stairs into the green room, and Pepe spotted her first.

The prawn zipped to the side of this gorgeous redhead in the purposely tatty gypsy skirt and loose silk blouse tied closed at her slim waist. And those shoes! Open-toe golden-hued sandals, and toenails painted rose! "Hhhello," he purred at her silkily, glomming onto her foot mid-step. "Are you looking for company, beautiful girl with the shoes I cannot resist? You know, I cannot help but notice your hair is the same color as mine! Tell me, do you believe in…destiny?"

Startled, Gina froze. "Uh…hi."

Hearing her voice, Newsie looked up, and saw Pepe drooling on her. Angrily he strode over and tapped the shrimp on the approximate spot where his shoulder might be. "Claws off," he informed the shrimp.

"Hey, I saw her first, Woodward and Bernstein in a bad, bad jacket," Pepe returned. Staring up at Gina, he tried again: "Would you like a lei, _señorita_ with the hair like the sunset over the beach at Acapulco?"

"Would I like a _what?"_ Gina asked, incredulous.

"The flower things, okay? I brought back a plethora from Spring Break," Pepe explained, showing her the three or four draped around his neck.

"No, I'm good," she said, biting back a grin.

"Hey Pepe, do you actually know what a plethora is?" Dr Teeth joked, overhearing the exchange.

The Newsman took her hand as she came the rest of the way down the stairs, leading her away to the corner bench where he'd been sitting. He threw a scowl over his shoulder at the shrimp. Pepe's jaw dropped as the two of them sat down together, and the beautiful girl leaned over to kiss the Newsman…right on his large mouth. For a long time. Seeing Rizzo come up next to him, Pepe murmured, "I am not believing this, okay! Tell me I am having the hallucinations!"

The rat shook his head. "Tell me about it. You shoulda seen her goin' all Florence Nightingale on him a few days ago. What a waste!"

"What is it? What? It cannot be the clothes," Pepe mused, watching the firey lady and the awkward-looking newscaster holding hands as they sat close together and talked softly. "Maybe she has a thing for noses?"

"Eh, whatever. So what'd ya bring me, pal?" Rizzo asked.

"Oh, here, have a lei."

The rat looked contemptuously at the small necklace of fake flowers in bright colors. "What? You promised me phone numbers of gorgeous co-eds!"

"Well, you know, I was busy, okay? Am I gonna stop a beautiful womens from rubbing oil all over my back to ask for her to dry her hands off and write down a phone number for you?" Pepe demanded. The two of them wandered off, arguing.

"Are you trying to do homework on me?" Gina asked Newsie, picking up the handbook.

Embarrassed, he shrugged. "I don't know a great deal about your work. I didn't want y…your friends to discover my ignorance."

Gina smiled, and with slender fingers stroked his hair back. It felt remarkably intimate, and he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Naturally, several Muppets were. "Uh…" he said, unsure how to react. Gina noticed the stares, and stood, offering her hand.

"Why don't we go out back for a bit? We can tell Scooter to come get you if they need you," she suggested. Relieved, he agreed at once, and they left the green room. Scooter agreed to look for the Newsman outside if he was required for a news sketch, and soon they had reached relative privacy out on the loading dock. There, they brushed off an area on the edge of the dock and sat next to one another. The evening air was cool but not unpleasant. "I take it you're bothered by them staring," Gina said once they were settled.

Newsie fidgeted uncomfortably. "Well, you…you understand…I have a certain professional standard to uphold at work…"

"Do you not want me to kiss you when any of them are around?"

He looked up; her gaze was serious, and a little disappointed. "No, I – I mean yes, you can certainly – I mean…" He swallowed, at a loss for words. "Maybe if we could…just be a little more…discreet?"

"I don't see anyone around right now," Gina observed.

Newsie darted suspicious looks all around, but she was right. Everyone else was inside, with the curtain about to go up. He nodded. Suddenly she'd slipped an arm around his waist and was kissing him deeply. "Oh," he mumbled helplessly; then closed his eyes, returning the kiss, his right hand gently touching her cheek, feeling how soft her skin was.

A flashbulb went off. Startled, they broke apart. Fleet Scribbler stood in the alley, grinning up at the pair. "Man, what a scoop!" the hack cackled. "I can see the headline now: 'Yellow Journalist Caught in Compromising Liplock!'" He pointed up at the Newsman. "I think that photo captures your best side, too. I could see right up your nose."

 _"_ _Scribbler!"_ the Newsman yelled, outraged, shooting to his feet and resisting the temptation to leap down and pummel the gossip-obsessed flack.

"Why are you taking pictures of us?" Gina demanded. She held onto Newsie so he wouldn't lose his balance and fall; he was clearly furious and not thinking about his own safety.

"Sister, are you kidding? I haven't seen a kiss that outrageous since Guy Smiley got busted in the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders' dressing-room! This is going right to page one of the _Daily Scandal!"_ Fleet promised, and took off running.

Newsie was tugging at Gina's hands. "Let me go. I have to stop him!"

"Wait, wait, wait. Hold on," Gina said, trying to calm him. "So he got a shot of us kissing. So what? How does that compromise you in any way?"

"I am a serious journalist!" the Newsman protested. "That…that hack will write some terrible story to go with that photo, and damage my reputation!"

"Newsie," Gina said softly. She had to touch his face to get his full attention. "Newsie. Are you ashamed of being seen with me?"

"What? No! No, of course not."

"Then what difference does it make what some rag prints?" She looked at him pointedly. He stopped and thought about it. Maybe she was right. She continued softly, "If his scandal sheet makes up a story about you being involved with me, who cares? I don't mind being romantically linked to you. Do you mind it?"

"No," he answered, slowly sitting down again.

"Is it scandalous for a Muppet to date a non-Muppet?"

"Well, it's…" He thought about it. "It's…unusual."

"Are you saying there would be prejudice against me? Or against you?"

"I should hope my colleagues would be more enlightened than that!"

"Well, I'd hope so too." She held his hand, gently stroking his fingers with her own. Her touch relaxed him instantly. He gazed up at her, realizing his worry was unnecessary. He nodded at her, then lifted his head to offer another kiss.

Just as their lips met, Pepe groaned from behind them, "I cannot believe this, okay? You two little lovemonkeys need to break it up! The frog, he says you gotta news chalkboard."

"A news chalkboard?" Gina frowned.

"He has to go read the news, okay?" Pepe yelled, frustrated.

Sighing, Newsie got to his feet. Gina stopped him before he went, pulling him down to her and planting a quick kiss on the middle of his nose. "Don't break a leg," she murmured. Feeling wonderfully flushed, Newsie smiled at her, then hurried inside.

"He _smiled,"_ Pepe said, shocked. "He smiled! I have never, ever seen that guy smile! He would not smile if you told him he had won a million pesos and a month's stay at the All-Wimpy-Newspeople's Casino! _Un_ believable!"

"It's a great smile, isn't it?" Gina said, smiling herself after her adorably reticent Newsie.

"I can show you a better one," the prawn murmured at her, gazing up at her with adoring eyes.

Gina shook her head, pushed the prawn away, and walked into the theatre to see how her fearless journalist would fare tonight.

Just before curtain, in the lab tucked between the old prop storage room and the tool room just off the tunnel belowstage, Dr Bunsen Honeydew held up a readout screen and frowned. "Beaker, have you been playing with the OscilloPsychaThromboScope?"

The lab assistant denied this with a firm swivel of his long head. "Uh–uhh."

"These readings don't make any sense," Honeydew muttered. "I'd expected to see a peak in the 300 megahertz range when we set off the test for radioactive cockroaches earlier." Beaker just shook his head, tiredly returning to sweeping up the bits of glass and straw which had been the result of the chemical cockroach test explosion a half-hour before. Honeydew checked the results of the test against some other instruments. "That's odd…not only was there nothing in the 300 range, but we're picking up strong fluctuations in the 1200 –to-1500 megahertz portion of the scale!" Beaker shrugged, really not caring. It had taken him some time to pluck all the glass shards from his nose. "Beaker, do you know what this means?"

Beaker sighed, attempting interest. "Mee mee, mee mee meep?"

"No, you silly goose. It means we have a conjunction of dangerous energies here in the theatre!"

The word _dangerous_ definitely got Beaker's attention. "Meep meep?"

"Yes! We need to find the source of this astoundingly high reading at once, or something terrible may happen! Now…let me just adjust that…" Honeydew frowned again. "Beaker, hand me that A-wrench, would you? The adjustment knob on the 'Scope seems to be stuck…"

Beaker tried to wrench the stubborn knob himself; on the third attempt, with a grunt of _"Meep!"_ , he turned the knob all the way to the other end. "No, no, not so far! That's too high! It may –"

BOOM!

The scientists stood with their faces blackened and smoke wafting from their heads. "Feed back," Honeydew murmured, and sank to the floor unconscious. Beaker's eyes rolled up and he sighed down into a faint as well, both of their heads ringing with the aftershock of the soundwaves from the OscilloPsychaThromboScope.

Across the room, three different instruments measuring strange energy fields within the theatre suddenly spiked, their needles jumping crazily as if an earthquake had just gone off under the building.

"Here is a Muppet News Flash! Congress continues to debate the national budget." The Newsman paused, staring confusedly at his notes, a growing pleasure in his mind. A real story? A _serious_ current events report? "Er…The debate has been dragging on for weeks, with both sides insisting upon their own terms, unable to reach a compromise. Leaders in the House of Representatives say they are still determined to _slash_ the budget – yeek!" He ducked as he saw an enormous sword coming at him. It sliced so close over his head he could feel the wind from its passage. Nervously he glanced left and right, but saw no sign where it had gone. Great. Checking the bulletin, he resumed, feeling less confident: "Uh…Although the Senate has agreed to increase the amount of money which will be _cut_ from this year's budget – aaagh!" He dodged to one side to avoid a large pair of scissors which flew straight at him, impaling itself in his backdrop, points spread open and quivering with the force of the strike. Shaken, Newsie finished the report. "Ah…uh…Both sides have yet to agree on the exact terms which will settle the issue. All this is a matter of some concern not only for the present fiscal year, but for its implications for the upcoming debates on next year's budget, where members of the House are promising to introduce measures which will _severely chop_ a number of – aaaaaagh!" Newsie ducked and dodged as a fire-ax, apparently of its own accord, appeared from nowhere and began chopping at him. When he ducked below his desk, the ax attacked that, swiftly reducing his nice wood desk to kindling. Newsie fled the stage, terrified; the ax whirled end over end after him, embedding itself in the floorboards just offstage with a loud THUNK.

"Newsie!" Gina ran to him, and for a moment he wasn't at all ashamed to cling to her, looking back at the ax. It had barely missed him. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he panted, slowly releasing his grip on her arms; she kept hold of his shoulders, staring at the weapon, its handle still vibrating. "Fine. That was closer than usual…"

"That was _deadlier_ than usual!" Gonzo exclaimed. "Wow! Are you trying to upstage me, Newsie?" Gonzo was about to go on with another motorcycle jump; this time, he was using nitrous in the bike, and hoped to reach the balcony.

"You can _have_ it," Newsie muttered. He kept staring at the ax. Gina kissed his forehead, and he took her hand in his, not caring if anyone saw.


	13. Chapter 13

Saturday night, Gina had to attend a full run-through for the crew of the show her theatre was doing. "It's a rehearsal for the actors, but all the rest of us who're going to be running it are supposed to come watch, so we can get an idea what the final production will look like," she explained to Newsie late Friday. "If you want, I can see if the tech director would mind you attending after you finish your show."

"No, no, don't go to any trouble," Newsie demurred. "Could I…could I meet you afterward?"

"Absolutely," she smiled, bestowing another of the amazing kisses upon him. "Oh…I need something from you."

"Anything," he agreed instantly.

"A lock of your hair."

"A lock of…? Why?"

"Just trust me," she smiled at him. "It's a Gypsy thing, okay?"

"Sure," Newsie said, allowing her to gently cut a bit of hair from over his right ear with a small pocketknife she carried. That was the side that usually fluffed out of control anyway. He gave her a puzzled look, but she wouldn't elaborate.

Instead she asked, "And what are your two favorite colors?"

"Hunter green and indigo blue," he said, then felt silly when she laughed. "Are those bad choices?"

"No, those are gorgeous! I just would've thought…you know…red and brown."

"Why?" He blinked at her in confusion.

"Uh…no reason, I guess." They stood a moment in silence, in front of Gina's apartment building. Though not ritzy, the Newsman could tell at a glance it was far nicer than where he lived. Old, but it looked well-maintained. Gina smiled at him, brushing her hair back. "So…thank you for another wonderful night."

They hadn't done anything besides go have a late dinner together in a café where the pig waiters all spoke Mock Greek, but Newsie had enjoyed it immensely as well. "You didn't mind the waiter smashing your plate on the ground during the dance?" he asked her.

"Well, I wasn't really done with it…but no. It was fun." She leaned down to kiss him. "Thank you, Newsie."

"Thank _you,"_ he responded. "You know, I've never…I mean, no one else has ever…that is…" He sighed. "Look, Gina, I can't even begin to understand this, but you have made the past few days the happiest of my entire life. So whatever your…your reasons for going out with me…thank you." He gazed earnestly up at her, hoping this dream wouldn't end anytime soon.

She gave him a wicked grin. "What do you _think_ my reasons are?"

Having tentatively ruled out the pity motive, the Newsman had no idea. "I couldn't begin to guess," he told her honestly, anxiously tugging down the hem of his jacket and smoothing down his tie.

"Come on, you're a great catch!" Gina said, touching the bridge of his glasses. He readjusted them nervously. "I'm just happy no one else snagged you first."

Newsie thought of the one chorus girl he'd asked out, some years back, after she'd been in a couple of dance numbers at the Muppet Theatre. Not only had she been cute and blonde, she'd been clueless about his job, and had told him directly that she didn't want to be known as "the girl who's dating the mook who gets flattened every other show." Wincing at the memory, he looked at the sidewalk. "I just don't…I hope you won't…get bored with me."

"How could I?" she asked, and knelt to meet his gaze. "Newsie…I'm thrilled you want to go out with _me,_ okay? My friends think I'm too straitlaced." His eyes opened wider at that; good grief, what must her friends be like? "A serious guy like you is just what I need. Okay?" She smiled at him, one hand caressing his jaw. He melted inside.

They kissed goodnight. She made it a very passionate kiss, so much so that when they finally parted he was almost too dazed to wave good-bye to her as she went up the stone steps to the building's front entrance. "See you tomorrow at Cutter's! Remember, I probably won't be there until ten!" He nodded. He wouldn't forget. "Good night!"

"Good night," he responded, and stood gazing raptly at the closed door for some time until someone else passed him going up the steps. They gave the Newsman a curious look, which shook him out of his trance.

Walking home, he started whistling the lively tune the Mock Greek pigs had been dancing and clapping to, softly at first. By the time he reached his own door, he was adding little flourishes and modulations to the song, happy at the recollection of Gina swirling her skirt around and grabbing his hands to pull him onto the floor.

"Oh are you _kidding_ me?" Rizzo groaned, staring at the scene before him.

 _"_ _Un_ believable," Pepe agreed, throwing his antennae back.

Hearing them, the Newsman turned around, smoothing down the front of his new sports jacket. "I just spent two hundred on all this," he protested. "I don't want to hear it! I'm not accepting any fashion critiques from a rat and a shrimp!"

"King Prawn, okay?" Pepe bristled.

Newsie scowled at him. "What are you doing here, anyway?" He was used to seeing the rat around his apartment by now, but the shrimp was an unpleasant addition. Turning away from the tiny pair, Newsie tried to check his appearance in the bathroom mirror. Unfortunately, he couldn't see more than his head and chest. He straightened his new tie. Looking down at himself, trying to judge objectively, he thought he looked professional enough. It was odd not to see tan and brown and gray, but he'd really wanted something a little more colorful to wear for Gina.

"Oh, he's wit' me," Rizzo said. The two of them, uninvited, jumped up on the Newsman's bed to stare at him while he continued to fuss in the doorway to the bathroom. "Man, oh, man. I didn't think anything could be _worse_ than that ugly old plaid thing!"

"How about a _new_ ugly plaid? Looks like, what, Saint Pippy's Day at the furniture salesman's golf game?" Pepe offered, and he and Rizzo snickered.

"You mean Saint Paddy's Day?"

"Whatever. But definitely golf, no?"

Newsie tried to ignore them. He rather liked the deep-green-and-blue plaid check pattern of the jacket, the matching indigo tie with widely spaced tiny green pinstripes, and the solid charcoal-colored pants. He'd even bought a pair of green argyle check socks to go with the outfit. "I've never played golf," he told them huffily.

"Well, in _that,_ you should be announcing it!" Rizzo chortled.

The rat grunted as Newsie backhanded him off the bed. Pepe cringed, then hopped down. "No vermin on the bed!" Newsie growled at them, and strode from the room.

He paused by the front door, making sure he had a small comb, his wallet and keys, and a packet of breath mints tucked into his pockets. He noticed Rhonda staring at him. "Well?" he demanded.

Rhonda bobbed her head at him. "You look very handsome."

Pleased, Newsie nodded at her. "Thank you. I'll be late; don't wait up."

"Have fun!" the little rat squeaked, waving as he left the apartment.

"Sheesh," Rizzo complained, rubbing the back of his head. "Kiss-up!"

"Yeah? That's why _I_ get the leftover cereal in the morning and _you_ get slapped around!" Rhonda smirked.

Pepe elbowed Rizzo with two arms. "Hey, Rizzo, he must have a big date, no? We should go see how badly he flops."

"Good point," Rizzo said. The two of them hurried out the door. "I'll count the number of people laughing at his jacket, you count the number of times he has to stand on tiptoe to talk to her!"

The Newsman was handling the evening fine until a bulletin came in for him to read. He'd paced the green room, nervously trying to keep down the butterflies in his stomach with a mango turnover from the Muppet Theatre kitchen. It helped somewhat, although he first had to beat the turnover into silence; it kept trying to sing "Born Free" while he was eating it. He'd acknowledged the compliments from Gonzo and Lew on his new threads, although it annoyed him a bit that no one else said anything…at least, not to him. And that dratted rat and shrimp dogged his footsteps all evening. He kept checking his watch. In four hours he would see Gina…in three and a half hours he would see Gina…

"News Flash!" Scooter yelled from the top of the stairs. Feeling more energetic than he had in years, Newsie bounded up and snatched the paper from Scooter before he could yell a second time, and sprinted to the stage. A newly constructed desk had only just slid into place when he reached it.

"Now for a Muppet News Flash!" he barked out, glancing at the paper in his left hand. "A tanker truck filled with corrosive acid collided with a truck from the Muppet Paper Company earlier today! Fortunately no one was injured in the crash. Traffic on the highway was blocked for hours, but eventually all the mess was cleaned…uh…" He blinked, then peered closely at his notes. The paper seemed damaged; the last few lines were missing. Well, whatever… He set it aside, reading from the next sheet: "In other news, Muppet Labs has perfected a new kind of acid for coating paper. The Self-Shredding Document Acid is inert and harmless until it reacts with the oils commonly found in skin – hey!"

He dropped the paper, watching it dissolve into wisps of smoke, then suddenly realized his left hand was burning. "Ow…what the…?" When he held his fingers up for a closer look, they burst into tiny blue flames. _"Aaaaaagh!"_

"Hey, Goldie! Stop, drop, and roll!" Statler yelled.

"I thought that's what he's always wanted!" Waldorf exclaimed.

"What's that?"

"A really hot story!"

"Oh, ho ho ho ho ho!"

Beau came running out with the fire extinguisher. "I gotcha! I gotcha! Don't worry!" he shouted. He pulled the trigger; nothing happened. "Oops," he said, eyes wide. "Guess I forgot to refill it after last time!"

In agony, the Newsman grabbed the nearest thing at hand – Beau's hat – and tried to smother the flames. Instead, the hat went up. Not only did this hurt horribly, the flames were threatening to start up his arm and take his new jacket with it. Panicked, the Newsman ran offstage, saw a bucket of liquid sitting in the wing, and plunged his hand into it. A huge cloud of steam poofed into the air. The fire went out, but the fumes enveloped his head. Coughing, he immediately swooned.

When he came to, feeling nauseous, he heard Kermit talking to someone else. "Yeah, close call. The drapes almost went up! …No, he's fine. Here, I see him coming around. Do you want to talk to him? …Okay." Kermit set the phone receiver down. "Hey, Newsman. It's Gina."

Newsie nodded weakly, and tried to get up from the floor. After two unsuccessful tries, he staggered over to the phone on the wall. "H-Hello?"

"Newsie? Oh, my gosh, are you all right? What happened?"

"I'm okay," he muttered, looking at his hand. It was bright red and even the air was hurting it.

"Kermit said your hand got burned! What happened? I felt something hot, and I felt like I should run over there, and I've been so worried…" His eyes closed, and he leaned against the wall, cradling his injured hand. Gina went from worried-sounding to determined in his ear. "I'm coming over. To heck with rehearsal."

"No, no, I'm fine," he lied. "Don't…don't make your director angry. I'm fine. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Newsie, you don't sound fine," Gina argued.

He swallowed, trying to project more confidence into his voice. "I promise, I'm fine. You know this sort of thing just happens to me. I've always been accident-prone."

"It felt really hot. How bad are you hurt?"

"I'm _fine,"_ Newsie insisted, desperately wanting to get off the phone and go treat his hand with something. "Get back to your rehearsal. I'll meet you at the restaurant as we agreed. Promise."

Reluctantly, she agreed. "Can I bring anything for you?"

"No, I think I still have that burn cream you gave me around here somewhere…"

"Burn cream? Newsie, just how bad are you hurt?"

"Gina, it's not bad, okay? I've been through worse. I can handle this. This is nothing." He tried to sound nonchalant. "Go on. Do your rehearsal. I'll see you soon."

He heard her sigh. "All right, if you say so. Just please take care of yourself, okay?"

"Mm-hmm," he grunted, doing his best not to give in to the pain. His hand felt like it was still on fire. After telling him she was looking forward to tonight, she let him go finally. He leaned against the wall, letting out the long groan he'd been holding in. After several deep breaths, he urged his feet to move, going downstairs to find the salve she'd brought him before. Luckily it was still in his dressing-room where he'd left it, and he slathered it over his entire left hand, then found a clean rag in Beau's neat pile of them which was long enough to wrap several times around it, although he had to ask Rowlf to tie the end up for him.

"Dang, it didn't burn the jacket," Rizzo complained to Pepe, watching as Newsie sat grimacing while the dog gently knotted the end of the rag around his injured hand.

"The night is young, amigo," Pepe murmured back. "Twenty bucks says the fashion disaster doesn't make it to midnight."

"Yeah? And then what – it turns back into a lounge chair?"

They giggled and chortled from the safety of under a table. Newsie didn't hear them. He thanked Rowlf, then sat glumly, wondering whether it would be better or worse if he unwrapped it before Gina actually arrived at the meeting-place and tried to pretend it was perfectly fine.

Not quite an hour later, he stood staring up at the erratically blinking sign: CUTT RS T VERN. This wasn't a restaurant, it was a bar! He rechecked the address Gina had given him. Dismayed at finding he hadn't made a mistake, he debated actually going inside. Maybe he should just wait out front for her. She'd be there in only…he checked his watch. An hour and forty-five minutes, at the least. He glanced up and down the street. Did something just move in that dark alley, right across from him? He quickly removed his glasses, polished the lenses with a handkerchief, and resettled them on his nose. A cold wind swept down the empty street, making him shiver. The forecast had been for a warmer night, and he hadn't worn his usual plain T-shirt beneath his white dress shirt. His new jacket, though wool, was of a thinner weave than his usual sports coat. He was sure he _did_ see movement then, at the edge of the corner; someone standing motionless, almost invisible on the unlit side of the building, had just tilted their head down to look at him.

The Newsman hurried into the bar. He hadn't taken three steps into the low-ceilinged room when an enormous bear landed on the floor right in front of him. Newsie jumped back, startled, but the bear only groaned.

"If ya can't pay, ya don't play! You know the rules, bud!" snarled a large hog with black sideburns and a spiked collar around his neck. Spikes and chains also festooned his black leather jacket.

"I…I'll get the money, I promise," the bear snuffled. Newsie wasn't sure which of the two he ought to be more afraid of…especially when the bear got to his feet. He wore a rumpled suit and was at least two feet taller than the Newsman.

Maybe outside wasn't so bad a place to wait…

Newsie suddenly heard a familiar voice. "Aaaaaand with that, Bobo is _out_ of the tournament! Having lost three games in a row _and_ what were probably his life savings, the bear is _gone,_ leaving the crowd favorite, Pinky Studebaker, as the highest-ranking player! _Will_ he go all the way? Stay tuned, snooker fans!"

The Newsman cautiously made his way through the raucous crowd to see Lewis Kazagger standing on a tall flat barstool, mic in hand, chatting with two very large-armed, tattooed men holding billiard cues. "Lewis? What are you doing _here?"_ Newsie asked, completely astonished.

Kazagger looked over and broke into a wide smile. "Hey, it's the Man with the News! How've you been, Newsie?"

"Fine, good," Newsie replied, still taken aback at seeing the long-nosed sportscaster in a dive like this.

"Did you come to watch the tournament?"

"What tournament?"

Kazagger gestured to a billiards table rigged for snooker. "This is the Elimination Round for the Five Boroughs Worst Pool Dive Tourney! With Bobo gone, that brings it down to just four players – 'Big Daddy D' Lazer, Alfie 'the Shark' Fatswaller, Pimsley Ffarffahaffnfr, and Pinky Studebaker here. His friends call him Rob," Kazagger said, pointing in turn to four of the meanest-looking hoods Newsie had ever seen outside of an episode of "The Wire."

One of them leaned over to ask the Newsman, "Wanna know why dey call me da Shark?"

"Not really," Newsie said, backing away.

"'Cause I eats little guys like you for breakfasts!" the man said, grinning with enormous and terribly sharp teeth.

"Easy, Shark, easy! Newsie's not in the Tourney! He's a fellow journalist," Kazagger said, tapping the brute's shoulder. He nodded at a man carrying a camera on his shoulder, held his mic up again, and addressed the camera: "Welcome back, all you pool hall rejects and devotees of the eight-ball! This is Lewis Kazagger live at Cutter's Tavern, where they're racking 'em up now for the first of three matches between Pimsley, known as 'the Gent' for his fastidious manners, and Pinky, who is odds-on to win the whole enchilada!"

"They got enchiladas here?" Rizzo asked, ears perking.

Pepe sniffed experimentally. "I only smells beer nuts and beer."

As the two wove through the forest of chair legs and large-booted feet, the Newsman retreated to the bar, which appeared less crowded. Most people seemed to be on the floor, either watching the pool face-off or playing their own games at other tables. A tough-looking lady bartender planted her hands on the counter in front of him. "Yeah? Whatcha want?"

"Er…cranberry juice?" Newsie asked.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, then shrugged and filled a beer mug with juice. He looked at it uncertainly; he hadn't been aware cranberries ever foamed over. When the bartender kept glaring at him, he hurriedly fished out a five and handed it over. She took it, slapping a dime back on the bar as his change. Foaming and expensive. Great. Having nothing better to do, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Newsie turned his barstool around to watch the snooker match. Why on earth had Gina picked _this_ place? Was this the sort of bar where she and her friends usually met? Repressing a shudder, he sipped the oddly sour juice and watched the gargantuan Pimsley lining up his shot.

"Hey sister, ya got any cheese sticks back there?" Rizzo asked at the other end of the bar.

The bartender recoiled, then just as quickly snapped the end of her bar-rag at the rat, sending him tumbling. On a barstool, Pepe watched in growing awe. "No rats in the bar!" the bartender growled.

The King Prawn batted his eyelashes at her. "How do you feel about crustaceans, hot mama?"

At the pool table, Pimsley had taken and missed his shot, and now Pinky returned, chalking his cue, squinting across the table from several angles. "Just look at that determination!" Kazagger whispered loudly for the camera. "He checks the angles…checks the wind…checks the bar tab…and there's the shot!"

Newsie ducked as a billiard ball came flying past, thwocking into a large catcher's glove the bartender held up. She tossed the ball back toward the table, barely even looking up from the pint-glass she was filling at a tap. "Oh sweet lady of the unbe _liev_ able reflexes, I am in love!" Pepe gushed.

At the table, Pimsley 'the Gent' laughed loud and harshly, beating his meaty fist against his own thigh. Angrily, Pinky swung his pool cue, breaking it over Pimsley's head. The only-slightly-less-meaty Pimsley croaked out a grunt of surprise, then swung his own cue. Kazagger ducked, continuing to comment: "And it seems Pinky wants to move right into the second match, the brawling event! I don't know if that's allowed before the ball-hitting has ended – we'll have to go to the judges!" The camera swung around to three bored-looking men with identical leather jackets and dark shades sitting at the center of the long bar. Two of them gave a thumbs-down; one finished the mug of beer in his hand and then showed a downturned thumb as well. "The judges say _no!_ Oh, no! Is Pinky Studebaker to be _disqualified_ this close to his heart's desire?"

The raucous bar grew even more confused and agitated, the crowd surging in every direction as punching and body-slamming broke out among all four snooker contestants, then spread into the rest of the room. The Newsman decided he would rather risk the street outside. Slipping off his seat, he dodged the weaving, shouting patrons anxiously, his hurt hand getting knocked around twice, making him yelp in pain. He ran into Kazagger near the door. Lewis was trying to look around the flying bodies and ducking away from the occasional thrown hard ivory ball. "Lewis, get out of this madhouse!" Newsie shouted at him.

"I can't without my cameraman!" Kazagger yelled back over the commotion.

"Where is he?"

A figure in a photographer's vest flew up over one of the tables, shrieking. A moment later, the camera flew up as well. Both newscasters winced as they heard it _crunch._ "On second thought, fresh air sounds fantastic," Lewis agreed, and the two of them dashed out the front door as 'Big Daddy D' plowed across the floor, face-first, ending up right where they'd been standing.


	14. Chapter 14

Bunsen Honeydew finished plugging in all the power cords and fibreoptic feeds, and dusted off his hands, turning to his assistant with a satisfied nod. "There! All hooked up. Are you ready, Beaker?"

Beaker looked at the remote unit, twiddling the knobs on it like an Etch-a-sketch. "Beaker, are you ready?" Sighing, Beaker gestured at the remote unit, then at the mini satellite dish Bunsen had rigged up to a sunvisor.

"Mee mee mee meep, mee mee meep," he muttered. He was less than thrilled about this entire venture.

"Now, don't forget, don't let the equipment get wet, or it could short out and we'll lose the signal," Bunsen cautioned him. Ignoring the feeble protests of his assistant, he fit the visor on top of Beaker's carrotey head, adjusting the strap so it fit tightly and didn't slide down over Beaker's eyeballs. Immediately Beaker staggered under the weight of the satellite dish. "Beaker, hold your head up straight! Good posture is often a key element of good lab work too, you know." Bunsen turned on everything, checking to see if his readouts on the mainframe were picking up the satellite feed properly. "Well, everything looks good. Time to head out." Sighing, Beaker trudged toward the door to the lab, then paused when he realized Honeydew wasn't following.

"Mee meep?" he asked hesitantly, pointing at his boss.

"Oh, no, I'm not coming."

"Mee meep!"

"Honestly, Beakie! _One_ of us has to stay here and perform the tiresome drudgework of monitoring the signal, triangulating it, and measuring it!" Honeydew waved him off. "I do envy you! You'll be the first to test this amazing invention. Just think of it, Beaker! You are the first to ever take the Muppet Labs PsychoKinetic Field Tracking Sensor out into the real world for a total field test! Oh, how I envy you!"

"Mee mee mee meep," Beaker suggested, trying to hand the remote tracking screen to Bunsen, but the scientist pushed him out the door.

"Go on! Good luck! And _find that psychokinetic field!"_

The door shut with a bang. Beaker jumped at the sound, looked around at the empty hallway below the dark theatre, sighed, and started walking. He held up the remote tracker, a device Bunsen had built from former iPod parts with a big red carbon drawing screen in the center. Small circles appeared on the screen.

"Are you receiving me, Beaker?" Bunsen's voice sounded tinned over the com system. Beaker nodded, realized Bunsen wouldn't see it, and responded quietly with another _meep._ "Good! Hm…I see we have numerous readings all over the theatre. It appears the strongest one is out on the loading dock, but the most recent seems to be from the stage. Head upstairs, Beakie."

Obediently Beaker trudged up to the stage floor, peering around nervously. Even though he knew the suspected Brown Ghost had turned out to be that girl who seemed to like the Newsman, he still didn't like the dark theatre with no one else around. Not one bit. Tiptoeing out onto the stage, looking up at the single light high in the fly system which provided the only dim illumination, Beaker jumped a foot when Bunsen's voice crackled over the com again. "There seems to be…some sort of interference from the field…" A shriek of static made Beaker yelp and jump again. "Ah, there! I've adjusted the com system for the psychokinetic field interference. Can you hear me any better now?"

"Meep," Beaker groaned, his ears still ringing.

"Oh, excellent. Hmm…Beaker, adjust your sensor up a touch. We need to filter out the older readings." Beaker twisted one of the knobs, and saw several of the circles on his screen vanish. "Now scan for the most recent one." Beaker held up the remote sensor and slowly turned in a semicircle, watching the screen. A new blip appeared on it.

"How very strange! That one seems farther away…but it's definitely the same energy pattern!" Bunsen commented. Beaker rechecked his sensor screen and then meeped agreement. Oh, good. That was too far away. He started to head back downstairs. Bunsen corrected him. "Beaker, where are you going? Go see what that reading is!"

"Meep mee mee?" Beaker asked anxiously.

"Yes! Your sensor indicates _that_ reading is current! Something is causing it _right now!_ We must go and see what the source of it is!"

"Me mee _meep_ mee mee mee!" Beaker rapidly swiveled his head _no way._

"Outside, Beakie! Track it down! Just be careful…with the equipment!"

Sighing, Beaker reluctantly unlocked the back door and ventured out into the dark streets.

"So, if you didn't come for the snooker, why are _you_ here?" Lewis asked.

The Newsman moved a little farther away from the door to the bar; the chaos within still sounded dangerous. "I'm supposed to be meeting…a friend," he replied.

"You have friends who play snooker?"

"Not that I know of."

The door to the bar flew open; the spiked pig bouncer and one of the patrons came tumbling out, both too busy punching the daylights out of one another to notice the two rats who scurried out in their wake, both carrying huge rounds of cheese over their heads.

"I didn't know you were a pool player," Rizzo said to the more muscular rat hefting a larger round of cheddar down the sidewalk.

"Ah, nuh. I just come here for the food. It's easier to get on pool nights," Bubba explained, and Rizzo laughed.

"Yeah, I see whatcha mean!" Avoiding another beefy customer who came flying out to crash on the sidewalk, the two rodents carried their haul around the corner.

Back in the bar, the King Prawn laid on the bartop, making gushy eyes at the Brunhilda of a bartender. "So, even though I am a prawn of the world, you know, I have never met a lady with such a fabulous right hook," he praised her. She ignored him, decking yet another pool player who reeled too close to the taps.

Outside, the Newsman stood well away from the carnage, glad he wasn't inside. Kazagger stood next to him, flinching as a brawny pig sailed out the door and landed right on top of the brawlers, sending them sprawling. "Ooh," Lewis commented. "Right in the pork chops!"

The Newsman shook his head. "Uh…sorry about your broadcast," he offered.

Kazagger shrugged. "Eh, it was only public access TV anyway." He clapped his fellow journalist on the shoulder. "So! I guess you're not worried about the Arabian Mafia, since you're out in public?"

"What? What Arabian Mafia?"

"I read that piece about you in the _Daily Scandal,"_ Kazagger said. "How you stole that harem princess who was in the country illegally, trying to escape the clutches of the Dread Sheik, and hid her for two weeks in your sordid little love nest in the No-Tell Motel?"

 _"_ _What?"_ the Newsman spluttered. "Lewis! Nothing that rag prints is _ever_ true!"

"But the byline was a reputable journalist…George P. Will!"

"You mean Fleet Scribbler," Newsie replied angrily.

"Ohhh," Kazagger mused, nodding slowly. "You know, I _thought_ Will didn't usually write for that paper…" As the Newsman disgustedly shook his head, Kazagger pointed out, "But there _was_ one heck of a photo with the story! It really looked like you, Newsie; and I haven't seen a liplock that outrageous since Guy Smiley –"

"And the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, yeah, I've heard," Newsie fumed. "Lewis, you should know better! The _Scandal_ once ran a story about you and a traveling troupe of penguin acrobats, remember?"

"Ah, er," Kazagger suddenly seemed speechless. "Ah, ha ha…yeah, that was some ridiculous piece, huh?"

"Newsie?"

They both turned. Gina approached, dressed in a crepe skirt of coppery fabric which seemed to float around her legs and a very low-cut dark orange blouse with long loose sleeves. Amber earrings and a necklace of the same fossils contributed to the fiery look. She smiled at them both. "Hi! Rehearsal let out early. Who's your friend?"

Kazagger's mouth had dropped, his long nose wobbling in astonishment. Newsie realized his own jaw was hanging open and shut it quickly. Kazagger recovered and stuck out his hand. "Lewis Kazagger, sportscaster. You must be Newsie's new flame!"

"Lewis, this is Gina Broucek," Newsie said, stepping up. Gina shook Lewis's hand and then bent to kiss Newsie. Although it was only a brief kiss this time, Kazagger's eyes widened.

"Well, what a pleasure! And let me just say, I have never had the honor of meeting such an astoundingly _tall_ and _fiery_ young lady!" Kazagger grinned. "I take it you're the one my esteemed colleague was awaiting in there!" He nodded back at the bar. The three patrons and the pig bouncer who'd been ejected earlier were now involved in a four-way brawl; the sounds of grunting and things hitting other things fairly hard filled the otherwise quiet street.

"In _there?_ Newsie, you were in the bar? Why?" Gina asked, shocked.

Confused, he looked back at the place, then at her. "I thought…I thought you said Cutter's?"

Gina shook her head, amazed. "Oh heck no! That place is a dive!" She pointed at a small door right next to the bar's windows. "Cutter's Steakhouse is two floors up. Come on, I'm starving!" She took his hand, and led the bewildered Newsman through the elegant little door and up a long flight of stairs.

"Me too!" Kazagger blurted out, making Newsie look back, startled. "So tell me, Miss Broucek, what do you do? Weight training? Basketball? No, no, don't tell me, I've got it – track!"

Gina laughed. Newsie scowled back at Lewis. Why was _he_ coming along? "No, Mr Kazagger. I'm a theatre techie. I do lots of weight-lifting and running around all day at my job; I don't need to waste any time at a gym," Gina said. They reached the lobby of a quiet, restrained restaurant. "Do you have a table for Broucek?" Gina asked the maitre-d', who checked his reservation book and then nodded, leading them back through a curtained doorway.

"What a fantastic place! Very nice choice," Kazagger commented loudly, drawing looks from the few other patrons around the candlelit room.

Newsie scowled deeply at the enthusiastic sportscaster, but Kazagger seemed oblivious, still nodding around at the soft décor and settling himself in the third chair which another waiter swiftly placed at the small table. "Um, I'm glad you approve," Gina said, shooting a smile at the Newsman. He gave her a look which said _Are you seriously letting him get away with this?_ She bit back a bigger smile, and reached over to put her hand over his, giving his fingers a squeeze. Then she noticed the bandage on his other hand. "Newsie? Your hand…how bad is it?"

Rats – he'd intended to remove the makeshift dressing before dinner and hope she wouldn't notice the injury. Embarrassed, he muttered, "It's nothing. Just a little sore."

Her expression swiftly turned to one of concern. "Newsie…please don't tell me you're all right when you're not. I hate seeing you hurt, but I need you to be honest." Ashamed, he stared at the tablecloth. He felt her fingers under his chin, lifting his head; she gazed worriedly into his eyes. "Please?" she murmured. He nodded, and she gave him a soft kiss on the lips. His eyes closed, savoring it. After a moment she pulled back, looking puzzled at him. "Um…Newsie? Why do you taste like cranberry beer?"

"Er…"

"Wow! Just look at that steak selection! I haven't seen a range like that since Puck 'Putter' Scrimshaw's Olympic Shot-put record!" Kazagger exclaimed, looking over the menu. Newsie brought on the deep scowl again, but again, Lewis paid no heed.

Newsie thought he heard a stifled giggle out of Gina. "So…Mr Kazagger. I take it you and Newsie have worked together?"

"Oh, sure. We were co-casters for the Battle of the Muppet All-Stars a little while back," Lewis said. "And you can just call me Lewis. I don't insist on formality among friends!"

"Okay, uh, Lewis." Gina glanced over at Newsie, who scooted his chair closer to Gina. "A-hem. So…anyone else want a glass of wine?"

Newsie was about to speak when Lewis butted in again. Loudly. "You know, it all looks so good I don't know where to begin! Why don't we try the Chateau LeBleat '96? Then we could rate it against the Pinowt Gregor and the Table Red Sonja, and declare definitively which comes out on top as the best of the moderately priced Eastern European reds!"

The Newsman glared at his colleague, slowly coming to a boil. He jumped when he felt a touch on his thigh, and looked over at Gina. She smiled at him, lightly miming a kiss at him, and gave his leg a squeeze under the table. Only slightly mollified, Newsie fell to studying his own menu, grumbling about big noses where they shouldn't be under his breath.

The city seemed especially unfriendly in this section to Beaker. Going cautiously along, he jumped at every stray cat which ran from his approach, shuddered at every cold caress of the wind on the back of his tall neck, and squeaked in terror at every shadow which suddenly loomed around a corner. "It appears our quarry is just a few streets over," Bunsen's voice came over the com. "You're still transmitting loud and clear, Beakie! Oh, this is so exciting! I can't wait to see what conjunction of incompatible forces is causing that energy field!"

"Meep mee meep," Beaker muttered to himself unhappily, peering reluctantly around the next corner. Nothing in sight; he blew out a worried breath, and checked the remote sensor screen. He oriented the sensor toward the signal, and took several steps unmolested when he suddenly heard a _psst_. Whirling, he stared wildly down an alley in between two tall brick buildings.

"Hey, you," hissed a low voice. Beaker looked around but couldn't see anyone. "Yeah, you! You with the dish thing on your head!"

"Meep?" Beaker asked, worriedly touching the satellite linkup hat.

"Yeah, _you."_ A large figure emerged from the alley, which seemed too small a crack between the buildings to have concealed the person. Beaker had a glimpse of beady eyes under a broad-brimmed hat. "Wanna have a good time?"

"Meep, meep," Beaker said quickly, shaking his head and his hands in the negative.

"Aw, c'mon. Bertie just _loves_ cute little carrot-tops like you," the stranger said silkily.

"Meep mertie?" Beaker peered along the black alley; something else came out of it. Something small, and wooly, and staring up at him blankly while it chewed its cud. A sheep? Beaker relaxed, looking over the fluffy little herbivore in relief and bewilderment.

"That's right, this here's Bertie. She's my best buddy." The stranger leaned closer to Beaker, revealing blue fur and pointy ears sticking out from under the hat. "She'll give you a real good time, 'cause she likes doing favors for her buddy, ya know?"

"Meep…mee mee meep?" Beaker asked, looking from the shady blue monster to the unthreatening little sheep, which had lost interest in Beaker and was grazing on some grayish grass sticking out of a crack in the sidewalk.

"And all it'll cost ya," said the skinny monster, "is that heavy-looking satellite dish on your head."

"Meep!" Beaker cried, instinctively grabbing the dish-visor with one hand while clutching the remote sensor tightly in his other.

"Come on, whaddaya say?"

"Meep _meep,"_ Beaker said, taking a step back.

"Eh, I didn't think so," the monster sighed. He produced a hand-bell from his coat. As Beaker looked at it, confused, the monster pointed at Beaker. "Hey, Bertie! Sic 'em!" Then he rang the bell.

The sheep, suddenly galvanized into action, bleated furiously and launched itself at Beaker's face. It missed by inches as the lab assistant, shrieking incoherently, took off down the street.

Dinner proved frustrating. Although he had to admit the steaks were perfect, and the Caesar salad elegantly prepared tableside with fresh ingredients, the Newsman continued to be irked by Kazagger's nonstop chatter. "So, the _Daily Scandal_ trash aside, are you two really dating?" Lewis asked.

Newsie glanced at Gina; she smiled and gave him a small nod. "Yes, we are _on a date,"_ he said pointedly.

"Well that's just fabulous! I never would've figured someone so amazingly beautiful would go out with my pal Newsie!" Kazagger said, nodding happily at Gina.

"Why not?" Gina asked, her gaze fixed on Newsie's, still smiling at him. "He's pretty amazing himself, you know." Newsie felt heat in his cheeks, pleased despite Kazagger's irritating intrusions.

"Well, it's true he _does_ have an astounding capability for withstanding sheer physical punishment," Lewis said. "Why, I remember, back in '76…"

"Lewis, I'm sorry to interrupt, but could you give us a minute?" Gina asked, seeing Newsie's scowl crumpling his brow over his glasses.

Lewis shrugged. "Uh, sure. I do need to use the little sportscaster's room! 'Scuse me!" He trotted off, his nose leading the way around the various tables.

"Please, please don't judge me by my colleague's behavior," Newsie muttered.

Gina took both his hands in hers gently, barely touching the bandage on his left one. "Never." She leaned in to kiss him, and he felt a little of his frustration dissolving. "I have a present for you."

"A present?" He looked up at her curiously. Gina pulled a small item out of her purse, and carefully looped it around Newsie's left wrist. "What is it?"

"This is something I learned from my Grandmama Angie," Gina said. "Remember I needed some of your hair? Well, this is what I did with it."

He peered closely at the entwined strings as she knotted their ends together. "A bracelet?" He'd never worn jewelry of any kind, much less had someone give him any.

"A protection charm," she explained. "Dark blue and green threads, your favorite colors. Plus some of your hair…plus some of mine." He looked up at her, surprised, then back at the woven strings. Yes…he could see tiny strands of his own auburn hair twined in with longer, softer-looking ones, obviously hers. "For every knot in this, I said a prayer for your safety. Seven knots. Wear it until it disintegrates. Never take it off."

"Uh…thank you," Newsie said, unsure what to think of it. He didn't believe in spells or charms, but on the other hand, he liked the idea of wearing a bit of her hair on his wrist, wound up with his own. "It matches my new jacket," he noted, pleased at the harmony of the colors.

"Yes it does," Gina grinned. "I like that, by the way. It brings out your eyes."

"Thank you," he said, and she rewarded him with another kiss. He was aware of others' eyes on them, but her tongue was so delicious he eventually gave in, happy when she stroked his cheek with one gentle hand.

"Wow, you should _see_ the fixtures in there!" Kazagger blurted out, and the pair drew apart, Newsie glaring daggers at Lewis. "And I haven't seen a floor that shiny since the Zamboni Polishing Relays at the Hockey Stadium Janitorial Crew Games back in '02!" Hopping back into his seat, Lewis looked at them both eagerly. "Did you guys order dessert already? I'd really love to try their Raspberry Bombé!"

Panting, Beaker finally paused in the shelter of a closed store's entry, peering behind him. No sign of the trained attack sheep or its nefarious master. He finally heard Bunsen's irritated voice over his own panicked breathing. "Beaker! Beaker, what are you doing?"

Getting his breath back, Beaker touched the COM ON button. "Mee meep," he huffed.

"You've overshot the signal! It's back in the other direction now! Honestly, don't you know how to read the PsychoKinetic Field Tracking Sensor readout screen?" With a heavy sigh, Bunsen adopted a calmer tone. "Turn to your left, all right, Beakie? It looks as though the source of the energy is about fifty feet that way."

Moving slowly and with many fearful glances all around, Beaker advanced toward the signal. It looked larger on his screen now; he was certainly getting close to it. He began trembling. Would it prove to be a big scary thing as well? He walked past three dazed, tough-looking men laying on the sidewalk, all sporting black eyes or other bruising. Fortunately they all seemed too out of it to pay much attention to him. Skittishly he made a wide circuit around the open door to some kind of bar; loud music and harsh laughter emanated from it. As he passed, a broken television camera came flying out, crumpling into pieces on the sidewalk. Beaker squealed and dodged, then hurried on as a man in a khaki vest with pockets all over tumbled out the door and flopped to an unconscious halt next to the wrecked camera. "Slow down, slow down!" Bunsen instructed. "You're right on top of it!"

Beaker looked back at the body dump on the sidewalk anxiously. "Mee meep?"

"Triangulate the signal! Get readings from several spots around you. I'll watch the readout from here," Bunsen told him.

Keeping one eye peeled on the people sprawled in front of the bar entrance, Beaker pointed the sensor all around from where he stood, then scurried to another spot a few feet away, tried it again, then crossed the street and repeated the procedure. "That's wonderful! I've got it!" Bunsen said excitedly. "Beaker, the signal is coming from something right in front of you, and about twenty feet up!"

Slowly Beaker looked up at the building housing the bar. Two floors above the rowdy establishment, he saw lit windows with shades drawn. A discreet sign hanging above the level announced _Cutter's Steakhouse, Fine Dining._ "Mee mee meep?"

"No, I very much doubt a steak would give off that much psychokinetic energy. But you should go in and investigate!"

"Meep _meep,"_ Beaker protested.

"Oh, don't be silly! I'm sure it's perfectly safe! It's just a building, Beakie! How could a building possibly hurt you?" Bunsen scolded him over the com. Sighing deeply, tremulous and wary, Beaker walked up to the door which must lead to the upper floors. Just as he reached for the door-handle, he heard a crunching, rumbling sound above him. He looked up and screamed, but had no time to run before an enormous chunk of masonry fell off the roof of the building and flattened him.

"Beaker?...Beaker…your signal's breaking up…can you hear me? Beaker, get up there and find that field source! And don't forget to keep the equipment away from anything wet!" Static cut through the transmission before the crushed satellite dish fizzled out. Beaker groaned, slowly examining the concrete chunk of roof crenellation pinning his midsection to the sidewalk. He tried to shove it. It budged an inch. Grunting, meeping, straining, Beaker used all his arm strength to move the weight off him, slow centimeter by centimeter.

He was almost free when it started to rain. Beaker looked wildly back and forth at the heavy, wet drops plopping down around him. One hit his nose.

He didn't actually start screaming until the satellite dish startled to crackle and spark.

"Well, I hope you know what you're getting into," Kazagger said to Gina as they waited for the server to bring the bill. Gina started to take out her purse, but the Newsman gestured for her to put it away, digging out his wallet; he still had some of the painfully-acquired cash, and was determined to be a gentleman…at least for Gina.

He shot another glare at Kazagger as the bill was placed on their table, fingering his wallet in sight of the sportscaster. "A- _hem."_

"Geshundteit," Lewis said amiably. "He's jinxed, you know," he told Gina.

"Jinxed?" she asked, looking curious. Newsie felt her hand touching his thigh again, and coughed to cover his surprise. He didn't feel unlucky tonight, for once.

"Oh, sure," Lewis answered, nodding so hard his nose bounced. "This guy can't go an hour without something terrible happening to him! Why, when we were co-casters, I swear it rubbed off on me! There was this one day –"

"Separate checks, please?" Newsie asked the waiter, indicating Kazagger. The waiter frowned, but left to recalculate the tab.

Gina stroked his leg under the table, smiling prettily at Lewis. "I think you're exaggerating," she said. Newsie had a hard time concentrating on the discussion, acutely feeling her fingers walking up his thigh. They'd all had several glasses of a dry red wine with dinner, and now he was feeling a little dazed.

"No, seriously, this guy's had more train wrecks than Spamtrak in the '80s!" Kazagger insisted. "I'd never seen a shark at a swim meet before I got teamed up with him!"

"Just because he's had some bad things happen to him, that doesn't mean he's jinxed," Gina told Lewis. "You're not going to scare me off."

"Oh, wouldn't dream of it, you faithful firebrand of fulminous fantasy for that flummoxed fashion failure!" Lewis laughed. Clearly he'd had a glass or two more than either of them. "But you really should be careful in his compan-oww," he choked as Newsie kicked his shin hard under the table. "Er. Ahem." He stood suddenly, took Gina's hand, and kissed the back of it before she could react. "Absolutely delightful meeting you, Miss Broucek. I wish you and Newsie all the happiness a gorgeous lady and an unlucky reporter could possibly experience! Thank you so much for an enchanting evening! See ya 'round, Newsie!" He hurried off before the waiter returned.

Astounded, Newsie stared after him. "That – Lewis – that –"

Gina broke into outright laughter. "Oh, man! Oh, my gosh. What a character!"

"What a deadbeat," Newsie muttered, grudgingly emptying his wallet and handing the full amount of the meal's cost to the waiter, who bowed and hastened off. Newsie looked worriedly at Gina. "You don't…you don't think…"

"That you're a jinx? No." She smiled merrily at him, eyes sparkling in the candlelight. He felt her hand return to his thigh, and gulped. "I think you're wonderful." She leaned close. "And if you'll let me…I'll show you just how wonderful."

He gulped again nervously, but acceded to her kiss, wondering just what would come next. As their lips met, a horrible shriek came from somewhere past the lobby. They sat up, staring in the direction of the sound. "Was that your friend?" Gina asked.

A well-dressed couple hurried into the room, although Newsie could've sworn he'd seen them leaving just a moment before, their meal already concluded. "Oh, it's awful! Oh, it's terrible!" the woman in pearls was sobbing. Her husband held her as she cried into a napkin, distraught. A waiter rushed past, crying "Call 911! Call 911!"

The Newsman's news instincts took over; he hurried from the room, following the growing agitation of the staff to the front stairs. There, only a few steps down from the restaurant lobby, Lewis Kazagger lay gasping in pain, three sharp-tipped umbrellas sticking out of his chest. Horrified, Newsie dropped to a crouch beside his sometime colleague, but Lewis stared at him wideyed, jerking away when Newsie tried to touch him. "Stay…away…!" he breathed.

"What happened?" the Newsman heard Gina asking the staff.

"I…I don't know! That couple, going out, knocked into the umbrella stand –"

"They just went flying! Like javelins!" someone else said, sounding amazed.

"It's a freak accident!"

Newsie stared down at Lewis, shocked. An odd whistling sound behind him made him instinctively duck aside. The last umbrella, which had been teetering on the top step when he hurried past, slid down the stairs and embedded itself with a soft _thock_ in Kazagger's nose. Lewis didn't cry out, but he stared up at Newsie with tears forming in his eyes.

"Lewis!" Newsie said, at a loss as to whether pulling out the umbrellas would hurt or help.

Kazagger whispered, "Your…fault…" and fell unconscious.

Stunned, the Newsman looked up the stairs at the small crowd huddled there, staring down, Gina in front. Helplessly, Newsie shook his head. _I didn't mean…I'd never want anyone hurt…how can this be my fault?_ he thought, unable to speak. Gina met his bewildered stare. They heard sirens in the distance.


	15. Chapter 15

The walk home after the ambulance left was awkward. Rain drizzled down, but neither of them bothered about it, even though droplets occasionally spattered the Newsman's glasses. He didn't know what to say. Gina stole concerned glances at him every few steps, and finally took his right hand in hers as they went. He looked up at her briefly, gave her fingers a squeeze of acknowledgement, but said nothing. Another block along towards her place, Gina said quietly, "It wasn't your fault."

"I always thought I _was_ jinxed, but usually not outside the theatre," he responded in a lower voice than normal.

"Newsie," Gina said, stopping, forcing him to stop as well and look into her face. "You are _not_ jinxed, and you did _not_ cause Lewis to get hurt. It was a freak accident."

 _"_ _How_ long have you been watching the show at the Muppet Theatre?"

"Um…almost three months now, I guess?"

Newsie shook his head in despair. "How can you say I'm not jinxed? Call it accident-prone, call it bizarre and frequent coincidence – but whatever the term, it fits."

Shaking her head, searching his narrowed eyes, Gina argued, "You know, I really wasn't kidding about being a blood Gypsy. My folks were first-born Americans; their parents were all from Czechoslovakia."

"The Czech Republic," he corrected. She tossed her hair angrily back over one shoulder as it slid into her face, and dropped to her knees so she wouldn't have to look down at him.

"My point is, I know from jinxes! If you were really jinxed, all kinds of things would happen to you, even outside the theatre! If you keep thinking like that, it's only going to bring more bad things down on you!" she scolded, and when he winced, she amended, "…So to speak."

Newsie thought of the sequence of awful things which had happened to him just a few days ago, the same night he obtained the piece of her note which told him how she really felt. He didn't speak them aloud, suddenly realizing he'd had an even worse string of luck than usual, and outside of his job, at that. Gina sighed, rubbing the woven bracelet she'd tied on his left wrist. "Newsie…I made this for you specifically, to protect you from any real or imagined danger. I need you to trust in that. Trust in _me,"_ she pleaded.

 _Imagined_ danger? Had he imagined that ax last night? Or the acid burning his hand tonight? He scowled, then saw the look on her face, and regretted his anger. He took both her hands in his, ignoring the pain in his left one. "I trust you," he said softly.

They embraced. He held tight to her, smelling the faintly spicy scent of cloves and cinnamon in her hair, telling himself to just shut up. This young woman had said she adored him, had kissed him and flirted with him to prove it, had even made him a little charm. Who was he to push away gifts like that? He felt tired suddenly, though he wouldn't have been able to say if it was the wine or the stress of the evening. Gina kissed his nose again – he was growing fond of that – and slowly rose, still holding his right hand. "I don't know about you, but I'm beat," she said. Newsie nodded agreement, and they began walking again. "What's tomorrow?" she asked.

"Uh…Sunday. I think. Yes."

"You have a matinee?"

"Yes. You?"

"Off day." She smiled at him. "Do you think your boss would mind if I came and hung out at your theatre all day?"

Newsie looked up at her, his spirits boosted immediately. "Would you really?"

"Why not? …If it's okay?"

"I'd love that," he said honestly, and she laughed.

"You know what? I have an idea. I'll bring lunch, watch your show, and then we can go back to your place and watch a movie. I'll bring the movie, too."

"Sure…" The bare-bones level of his earthly possessions struck him, and he stammered, embarrassed. "Uh...are you sure you want to go to _my_ apartment? I mean, you've seen it…I don't have a VCR or anything…"

Gina laughed. He looked up at her, fascinated with the lightness in that sound. Just hearing it put him in a better mood. "I'll bring my portable DVD player. And yes, your place will be fine. It's closer to your theatre." She leaned down to murmur to him, "You actually have the cleanest, best-organized bachelor digs I've ever seen, especially for someone who works in theatre!"

"Er," he said, feeling flushed, "Well, it's clean when the rats aren't trashing it…"

"Tell them if they'll keep it neat for you, I'll also bring the popcorn."

"Oh," Newsie said, dismayed. He'd hoped the rodents wouldn't be invited.

She heard the tone of his voice, and gave him a sideways look. "Newsie? Would you rather be alone with me?"

He had to try twice to get his throat to unstick. "Yes. Yes I would." When she gave him another look, her eyes narrowed and a sly smile on her face, he felt flustered. "That is…if you wanted…er…"

She stopped again, and for a moment he thought he'd overstepped. Then she stroked his hair tenderly. "You. Are. Priceless," she said, low and breathy. She leaned over and tilted his chin up to kiss him. The Newsman kissed back fervently, holding her waist, feeling overwhelmed. At that moment, he didn't care what she saw in him; he just hoped it would never stop. Eventually she did pull away, softly, leaving him breathless and feeling physical sensations he'd never experienced. He stared up at her. She looked at the building in front of them, then gave him a wistful smile. "Um…we're here."

"Here?" He looked up, realized they'd reached her apartment building, and sadly stood there. "Oh."

Gina stood a long moment as well, debating with herself. Finally she sighed. "I have to be up at six. I promised I'd feed my neighbor's cat, and she needs medicines at certain times. I should get some sleep." She stroked his cheek fondly. _Please, please keep touching me,_ he thought, realized he was actually thinking it and felt ashamed. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he responded automatically. She raised an eyebrow, mock-frowning, and he assured her quickly, "No, honestly, I'm fine. You're right. You need your sleep."

"So do you," she said, her fingers still resting against his cheek. She gave him an impish smile. "Your eyes are looking brighter lately. I don't want to ruin that trend!"

"Really?"

"I like seeing that energy in you. Yes." He smiled tentatively at her; she gave out a small giggle. "Ah…what a fantastic smile. Go on, go get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, okay?"

"Definitely," he promised. She gave him one more quick kiss on his nose, smiled, turned and ran up the steps. She looked back once; he waved, feeling ridiculous, but she waved back and then went inside. He sighed, all the energy leaving his body, weary and with returning worry. He fingered the bracelet, its woven textures soft against his skin. No, he didn't believe in spells or charms, but then again…she'd made it for _him,_ and she believed in it. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to keep that in mind. Whether Gina could protect him or not, she cared, and that was more than anyone else had ever done. Nodding to himself, he reoriented, getting his bearings in the not-yet-familiar neighborhood, and headed home.

No one might have noticed the bracelet if he hadn't kept fidgeting with it. "Cool, friendship bracelet?" Gonzo asked.

The Newsman paused in his pacing and continual adjusting of his cuffs, his tie, and the woven and knotted strings around his wrist. "Friendship?"

"Yeah. Camilla made me one a few years back, when they were all the rage. She wove it herself out of corn sheaves and my belly-button lint," Gonzo said. The Newsman just stared at him for a moment, then resumed his pacing on the loading dock.

"Gina made it for me," he responded finally, wondering why he was bothering to explain anything. He felt too nervous to be still. It was fifteen minutes until opening, and there was still no sign of the person he most wanted to see.

"I like it," Gonzo said. "Kinda brings out your eyes."

The Newsman didn't say anything, pausing momentarily to stare down the empty alley. Internally he was cursing himself for not having memorized her phone number yet. Rhonda had it; should he call his own apartment and get it? Would the little rat who seemed to have fallen into the role of his housekeeper even answer the phone? His answering machine had died years ago, and he'd never bothered with things like voicemail, since no one ever called him. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure where the phone _was._ "So, I gotta ask you," Gonzo said, putting out a blue furry hand to arrest his pacing again, "What's it like?"

"What is _what_ like?"

"Dating a taller woman."

Newsie stared at Gonzo. The odd little creature opened his heavy eyes wider, appearing genuinely curious. A few beats passed. Gonzo picked up the thread again, somewhat more subdued: "'Cause, you know, don't get me wrong – I love Camilla! But she _is_ a little on the, well," he glanced around to make sure his chickie wasn't nearby, "the height-challenged side."

"Who's height-challenged?" Rizzo demanded, wandering over to them with something possibly vegetable he'd snatched from the canteen.

"Oh, hey Rizzo. I was just asking Newsie what it's like being with a taller woman."

Rizzo sighed. "Divine, I bet!"

"Can't a man pace in privacy?" the Newsman snapped at them both.

"Sheesh, okay," Rizzo grumbled. He tugged at Gonzo's hand. "Hey buddy, will you come do that thing with the soda machine again? I want a Splurt."

"Huh?...Oh, sure," Gonzo agreed, and the two of them went back inside the theatre.

Worried, the Newsman paused every few seconds to look down the alley. Had she changed her mind? Was she not coming? Maybe she'd reconsidered the whole jinx thing. Maybe… He stopped himself before he could think about something having happened to her. No. Probably traffic. _But she walks._ She'd overslept maybe. _She said she was getting up early._ Angry with himself, he glared out at the empty bricks and high walls. _Will you stop that! She'll be here!_

And just like that, she was. His heart lightened immediately when she appeared around the corner. He leaped down the stairs and hurried to her, taking the stack of covered deli trays she was bearing. "Oh! Hi Newsie!" She kissed him, grinning. "I'm sorry I'm late…the deli was crowded."

"What is all this?" he grunted, hefting the heavier-than-they-looked trays.

"Lunch, remember?" she laughed. He tried to pretend carrying it all up the stairs was easy; she followed, resisting the urge to put a stabilizing hand on his back. It would only have hurt his pride. As they came through the backstage hall, Scooter was rushing around telling everyone five minutes. Newsie nodded acknowledgement and then bore the trays of goodies downstairs to the green room.

"Hi guys! I brought lunch!" Gina called out, and within seconds half the theatre were swarming around, opening up the trays on one of the tables, and attacking the food. Gina waded into the fray, laughing, her arms lifted over the swarm of hungry Muppets, saying "You're welcome" about twenty times for everyone who thanked her. The Newsman stood apart, at first annoyed that it wasn't a small, private, shared bagged lunch, but within a few minutes was surprised by how many of his fellow cast members patted his shoulder or simply gave him some compliment or thanks in passing. When Gina came back to him and handed him a paper plate with a sandwich, pickles and green olives, and a handful of spicy-looking chips, he shook his head at her in bewilderment.

"Why are they thanking me?" he asked her. "You're the one who fed them."

"Because they know I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you," she murmured back, kissing his nose. He wondered if he was turning pink; it certainly felt like it.

"Thank you," he murmured back at her, examining the sandwich. "Pastrami, grilled onions and mustard on marbled rye?"

"Rhonda said it's your favorite," Gina said hopefully.

"I…yes," he blinked at her. "How did she…when did you…"

"While you were sick. She and I had a really long chat that one afternoon. I'm glad you decided to give her a chance. She said she knew you were a decent guy when all you did was glare at them, not put down traps or poison or get a cat." Gina smiled at him. "Come on, let's find a seat."

As they passed the soda machine, neither noticed two blue legs in bell-bottoms sticking out of the slot at the bottom where the cans were dispensed. Gonzo's muffled voice came from the machine's innards: "I think I've…think I've almost got it…there! Okay Rizzo, pull me out!... Rizzo?"

The brash little rat had followed Gina to a bench by the stairs, where she and Newsie were sitting down to eat. "I just want you to know," Rizzo said, gazing up at the amused redhead in absolute worship, "that you are the _best_ lady to ever have brought us food twice in a row! And…I think I'm in love!"

When Newsie leaned over, turning on his deepest scowl, Rizzo amended quickly, "In a, 'hey I'm glad you're my roomie's girlfriend,' kind of way."

"We are _not_ roommates!" Newsie barked at him.

"Whatever," Rizzo said, and scurried off.

Gina giggled. "Did I do good?"

The Newsman looked once around the room. Everyone not scrambling to get upstairs to go onstage was happily noshing. She'd brought two sandwich trays, a tray of different kinds of chips and dip, and a tray of pickled things. He doubted any of it would last another five minutes. Everyone seemed pleased, and people were throwing happy looks their way. "You did wonderful," he told her. "I think you've impressed everyone. They're all smiling at you."

"Not just at me," she corrected gently, and he looked back at her, surprised. She smiled, then gave him another of those soft kisses on his prominent nose which he had decided he definitely liked.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"Welcome," she replied around a mouthful of her own sandwich. "But we're gonna have to cool the freebies. This is just about the last of the money-tree cash…unless you want to try the same stunt again."

He realized what she meant, and heat rose in his face again. "I don't think so." He busied himself with his lunch. She giggled. When he met her gaze, her gray eyes looked bright, and he found his normal stiff demeanor melting. Then she shifted closer to him, leaning her arm against his shoulder, and he relaxed.

He had time to finish off most of it before Scooter yelled for him. Gina deftly caught the remainder of the food and his plate when he jumped up. He ran four or five steps, halted as though a leash had yanked him, hurried back to her and kissed _her_ more petite nose, then grinned at her and sprinted upstairs. Gina grinned back at his retreating form, then realized many eyes were upon her, and most of them looked shocked. Just as swiftly, nonchalant conversations resumed. _Hmm,_ she thought, _I guess he DOESN'T smile much._ Pleased with what she'd wrought, she finished her own pickle, stood and wiped her hands on a paper napkin, then followed her favorite newscaster upstairs.

"Oh hey, thanks for the food," Scooter whispered to her as he hurried past.

"Just don't tell the Sosilly crew," she whispered back. "I didn't bring them any!"

The young man laughed silently, continuing along on whatever errand he was bound. Gina watched Newsie from the stage right wing, keeping carefully out of everyone's way.

The stage lights on him were too bright for Newsie to see Gina, but he felt reassured at the certainty she was back there somewhere. Glancing down at his copy, he saw the little knots on the bracelet just poking out of his shirt-cuff, and with a bold heart launched into the story. "Here is a Muppet News Flash! Authorities today in the city health department declared the reports of mutagenic cockroaches allegedly swarming the city to be absolutely without merit…"

Gina suddenly turned to Kermit. "Do you have any mouthwash?"

"No, why?" the frog asked, perplexed.

"I think Gonzo has some," Fozzie offered.

Gina grabbed the bear's arms, startling him. "Which one is Gonzo?"

"He's the short one with the paisley shirt," Fozzie replied, taken aback at her intense manner.

"Short? Curly nose? Is he blue?"

"Come ta think of it, he was acting a little down today," Fozzie mused.

Gina raced downstairs, looked around, spotted Rizzo and ran up to him. "Rizzy! Where's Gonzo?"

The rat tapped one of the shoes sticking out of the drink machine. "Hey, buddy. Newsie's girl wants you."

"Yeah?" the muffled voice sounded from deep within the machine.

Gina leaned against it, asking loudly, "Can I borrow your mouthwash?"

"Sure."

"Where is it?"

"Dressing room," came the faint reply.

As Gina leapt up the stairs again, Rizzo poked Gonzo's shoe. "C'mon, can you reach it or not? 'Cause if not I'll take a Goober Cola instead."

Onstage, Newsie thought he heard a rustling sound around his feet. He looked down, saw nothing, and tried to continue the newscast. "Er…here is our own Dr Bunsen Honeydew of Muppet Labs to comment on the report. Dr Honeydew?" He turned to the screen behind him, where Bunsen's beaming round face appeared.

"Thank you, Newsman. Yes, these reports which the health department has been issuing are quite true. I can definitively say there are _no_ mutagenic roaches roaming the sewers of our city."

"Oh good, good," Newsie said, relieved to hear it, but still distracted by the sounds of something skittering across the stage. He tried to surreptitiously glance over his desk, but saw nothing. "I guess we can all relax, then."

"The roaches are, in fact, not mutagenic at all; they've simply been trained to only go after specific types of food," Bunsen continued brightly.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, it's an advance in insect behavioral modification which will revolutionize entomology! You see, we here at Muppet Labs have trained the roaches to disdain _all_ of their normal food sources, so they will no longer be a general menace to civilization!" Bunsen looked positively bursting with pride.

Newsie was _positive_ something had just zipped under his desk. Stepping away from it, he darted anxious looks all around the floor. "Ah – I see – uh – what – what foods do they now prefer?" he asked the scientist, trying to keep his focus on the story.

"Oh, only _very specific_ ones."

"Such as?" Newsie's head jerked to the right. Had something just rustled the notes on his desk?

"They only eat pastrami sandwiches with grilled onions and mustard on marbled rye," Bunsen stated firmly. He waved a dismissive hand. "Of course, since they've given up all other food sources, _that_ one now makes them absolutely _frenzied!"_

Newsie shrieked as small brown bugs poured over his desk and swarmed down the news backdrop, all heading directly for him. Startled, Bunsen put his hands over his mouth before the connection winked out. "Oh! Oh, my…"

Gina grabbed Newsie two steps offstage. To his shock, she took firm hold of his nose in one hand and yanked it up, opening his mouth very wide. He nearly choked as she doused his tongue with strong mouthwash. "Rinse!" she told him, releasing him. He did, too surprised not to obey, but the taste was so violent he wound up spitting the stuff out almost immediately. Spluttering, he backed away from the stage, but the roaches suddenly seemed to be milling around in confusion. One of them, sniffing around with tiny antennae, stood on its hindmost legs and gestured. With a tiny but audible cheer, the entire swarm surged off toward the lower stairs, heading for the green room.

"Yeesh," Kermit muttered.

"Did you even get a bite of the food?" Fozzie asked him.

"No! However," the frog mused, "I suppose I could get a bite or two now…"

Gina shuddered, turning away. The Newsman walked a few steps off to the side with her, still hacking; he pulled out a clean handkerchief to wipe his mouth. "That was _awful,"_ he panted. "What did you just give me?"

Gina looked at the bottle's label, her eyes widening. "Uh…fresh minty sardine flavor?"

They both muttered, "Ugh…"

Kermit looked around. "Where's Gonzo? I thought he was singing with Rowlf next."

Scooter hurried past again on his way to find a screwdriver. "He's stuck in the soda machine again. Already on it, boss."

Gina gave Newsie a sympathetic look, brushing his cheek with one soft finger. "Out back?" she offered.

"Sounds good," he said, drawing in air over his burning tongue, trying to erase the horrible taste from his mouth. She draped an arm around his shoulders, and they slipped outside, ignoring the screams from the green room.


	16. Chapter 16

"Fake butter or not?"

"Oh, yes _please,"_ Rizzo said, drooling. "Lots and lots of it!"

Grimacing, Newsie shook his head. Gina grinned at him. "Looks like I was right to bring both kinds. Rhonda, two bowls, please?"

"Here you go," the dainty rat said, plopping one large wooden bowl on the counter, then reaching up to receive another from two rats handing it down from a cupboard.

They'd stopped by a Zippy-Mart on the way to Newsie's apartment to get sodas. Newsie kept a close eye on his own cup while Rizzo distributed a pack of cold cans to the other rodents. Newsie still wasn't happy about sharing this evening's entertainment, but Gina had promised him it wouldn't be the whole evening…with a suggestive stroke of her hand down his tie, and so he'd grudgingly agreed to include his non-paying roommates. Even now, he saw them carrying tiny lawn chairs and miniature tables into the living area from heaven knows where, arraying themselves drive-in style in front of the TV. "Okay, I'm going to get the movie set up," Gina told him, indicating the elderly microwave wheezing as its turntable wobbled around with a bag of greasy fake-butter popcorn in it. "Could you give that one to the rats and then start another for them?"

Rizzo was grinning at him. Newsie frowned, making sure the rat understood this was being tolerated _only_ because Gina had asked. Rizzo, undaunted, gestured at the microwave. "Why don'cha put em all in at once? It'll be done quicker."

Newsie shook his head. "I saw the Swedish Chef try that once. It wasn't productive."

"'It wasn't productive,'" the rat repeated derisively. "Yeah, just hurry it up!"

The Newsman's only response was a deep scowl.

"So, like, what're we watching?" another rat asked in the living area.

"Dunno. Some royalty thing."

"Chichester Theatre," Gina corrected, connecting her DVD player to the TV and turning everything on. She pulled out a DVD case, showing it to them. "This is their version of ' _Macbeth.'_ It's pretty scary. You guys sure you can handle it?"

"Ooh! A scary movie!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

"Bring it on!"

"Rizzy? I don't know if I can watch this," a pretty little gray rat named Lola whispered to Rizzo, who was already munching the first of the cooked popcorn from the larger of the two bowls.

He put his arm around her. "Ah, don't worry, baby! I'll hold you the whole time!"

"That's what I was afraid of," she sniffed, stalking off.

"Lola, Lola, sweetheart -!" Rizzo went after her.

"Shakespeare?" Newsie asked Gina as she returned to the kitchen.

"You don't like?"

"I _do_ like. I, uh…just wasn't expecting something so…"

"Cultural?" She grinned at him, then leaned over to kiss him briefly. "Actually, it's the show the Sosilly is doing. Not quite like this, of course; but I thought you might like to see the version I like best before you see the one I'll be working on."

Newsie nodded, intrigued by the idea. The Muppet Theatre mostly put on variety and vaudeville; he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen something classical…and no, the time Nureyev had been their guest didn't count. "When it comes to Shakes," Gina said, "I actually prefer ' _As You Like It'_ the best, but I really love what they did with this one. It's true to the script, but has a modern dystopian theme that's amazing to watch." She swapped out the popcorn bags, dumping the second buttery one into the large bowl and handing it off to three eager rats who carried it over to the TV. "Do you have a fave?"

"A favorite play of Shakespeare's?" He had to think about it. "I haven't seen enough to form an opinion," he hedged, and she laughed.

"Then, dear deprived Newsman, you are in for a treat!" He couldn't help but return her smile. "If you'll get the drinks to the sofa, I'll be right there with our bowl."

He nodded again, and took the jumbo-sized fountain cups over to the sofa, still a little amazed to have a party going on in his place which he was actually invited to. The rats were at a high pitch of excitement, already eating their popcorn, chattering amongst themselves. When Gina sat down and hit PLAY, they applauded and then settled down. Gina set the bowl of no-butter popcorn in her lap, put her left arm around Newsie's shoulders, and drew him in close. He marveled at her clean, faintly spicy scent; she always seemed to have just rubbed cloves and exotic flowers all over her skin before she saw him. He hoped he was as pleasant for her. He'd managed with several rinses of water to get the sardine-mouthwash taste out of his mouth, and once they'd reached the apartment, Gina had talked him into removing his jacket and tie and shoes, and even rolling up his shirtsleeves and unbuttoning the top collar button. He felt half-naked…but that feeling in conjunction with being so close to her was rather exciting.

He was surprised to see what looked like a twentieth-century war bunker in the opening scenes. "I thought ' _Macbeth'_ was about an old Scottish laird centuries back?" he whispered at Gina.

"This is a new interpretation. Think ' _1984,'"_ she whispered back; her breath on his ear made him temporarily lose all focus. He wasn't entirely sure what she meant, but nodded back.

 _"_ _Shhh,"_ one of the rats hissed. Biting back a smile, Gina kicked up the volume a touch, and offered up a fingerful of popcorn to Newsie. A little surprised, he opened his mouth for her and she tossed it in with a soft giggle.

Oh…he could get used to this.

He had to admit, the production was outstanding. The set, which seemed to be someplace underground (when Rizzo suddenly squeaked, "Oh my gawd! I get it! It's a _morgue!"_ , all the other rats squealed in fright), strongly suggested a fortified bunker in the midst of a second-world military coup. Patrick Stewart as the ambitious but tortured Macbeth was by turns eager, harsh, and chilling. The murder of the king, although performed mostly off-camera, was so effective several of the rats fled or cowered under the coffee table; when Banquo's ghost visited the grand feast, Rizzo himself yelped that he couldn't take any more and left the room for several minutes. For his part, the Newsman was entranced as much by his companion as the play. He completely missed at least one scene when she began playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Feeling daring, he let his hand brush her thigh when he reached for the popcorn bowl a couple of times, each time glancing up at her; she smiled.

When Macbeth confronted the witches about his kingship, a startling and eerie scene involving some fast-motion camera tricks which really made the weird sisters look unearthly, Gina surprised Newsie by setting aside the near-empty bowl and drawing him into her lap instead. As she wrapped her arms around his waist, she murmured into his ear, "This scene always messes with my head. Do you mind?"

Oh no. He definitely did not mind.

He leaned against her, conscious of the curves of her body against his back, wondering if she expected him to be able to follow the story like this, or if she was deliberately teasing him. She shivered at the end of the witches' scene, which even made him shudder; most of the rats were squeaking in terror. "Ugh. It's just so creepy," Gina whispered.

"Gypsies aren't like that, right?" Newsie asked her cautiously.

She smiled, then met his lips with a kiss. "What do _you_ think?"

"I think your spell is working," he murmured.

She giggled. "He _does_ know how to make a joke."

Newsie blushed, but was content to snuggle with her through the end of the play, feeling more appreciated than he ever had. When the credits rolled, the rats who'd toughed it out (or come back into the room) slowly clapped, and loud chatter quickly arose.

"Wow. That was amazing."

"Didja see when the dead guy sat up? Didja see that?"

"Well obviously, it was a postmodern metaphor for totalitarianism and the fall of the one-party state…"

"That Royal Stewart guy kicks butt!"

"Let's watch it again!"

"Hey Gina, is there any more popcorn?"

"Fine, but don't hide under my chair this time."

Above the noise, Gina held up one arm and pointed to the kitchen. "There's more, but you guys have to make it yourselves!" She shifted, and hastily Newsie moved off her lap, but when she stood up, she took his hand, smiling at him. "Your landlord and I have some things to discuss."

Bewildered, he rose, going into his bedroom as she gently indicated. "Off-limits!" she called over her shoulder at the rats, most of whom barely acknowledged her as they figured out how to cue up the beginning again and wrestled the microwave door open. She shut the bedroom door behind her, turning on an absolutely evil grin.

"Uh…what…" Newsie began, but was cut off when she swiftly bore him to the bed, locking his tongue with her own, her hands stroking his hair, his face, his neck. She removed his glasses, setting them on the nightstand, and he could only stare at her in complete surprise. When she allowed him a breath, he puffed, "…Oh." He was sure he was bright red by this point. Gina was breathing hard as well, poised on hands and knees above him on the bed, her hair falling over her shoulders and eyes narrowed in mischievous delight.

"Gotcha," she said.

"Okay," he conceded happily. Giggling, she lowered her face to his. Her hair tickled his neck and the little of his chest exposed by his slightly open collar. He reached up, brushing his fingers through that amazing silkiness, then surprised her by pulling her down to meet his kiss, his hand on the back of her neck.

"Mmm," she said, smiling, her eyes inches from his own when they broke for air once more. "That's more like it."

"I've never…um…haven't really had much…experience," Newsie admitted, blushing again.

"You," she said, kissing his forehead, "Are. Adorable." Her kisses moved down his nose, making him chuckle in utter delight. She drew back a moment, looking semi-critically at him. "Did you know, without your glasses, you look kind of like Sam Donaldson?"

"Is that bad or good?"

"Your nose is cuter."

He had to laugh at that, and pulled her close again for more kissing.

Oh, this was amazing. This was absolutely unthought-of! He inhaled sharply when she started undoing his shirt-buttons. Any protest he might have made was buried in a groan as she began brushing just her fingertips over his chest. He gulped for air, and managed to find some shadow of his usual deep voice, though it sounded weak even to him: "Gina…are you…are you sure…?"

She pulled back enough to study his eyes seriously. "Are you?"

He had to swallow twice before he could speak again. "Yes."

Her smile was tender, and more beautiful than anything he'd ever seen directed his way before. "Then kiss me."

He was happy to oblige. The placement of both of their hands became more involved, more daring, each welcoming the other's touch. In the midst of this, Newsie suddenly started, looking blurrily around the room. "Did you hear that?"

"Hmmm?" Gina kept doing something to him with her fingertips, and only with great effort did he focus his hearing. Some small sound, some shifting, creaking noise, sounded out of place to him.

"Wait, wait," he begged. "I thought I heard something…"

"Just the rats," she dismissed it. As she returned her lips to his neck, he gave in, doing his best to echo that affection with his own ministrations.

The definite sound of a groaning floorboard shook him out of it. "That doesn't sound right," he said, blinking up at her.

"Newsie…" Gina sighed at him, mildly annoyed. "I'm sure it's just the rats. Relax." She renewed her attentions, doing something else by shifting position that caused him to groan and close his eyes. She was probably right. Why was he even worried about the rodents? It didn't matter nearly as much as…that…oh yes, that…right…there…

"Whoa! Uh, sorry," Rizzo said.

Flustered, Newsie quickly opened his eyes, glaring around Gina's curtain of lovely fiery hair at the rat. _"No interruptions!"_ he yelled angrily, and Rizzo flinched.

"Hey, I _said_ sorry! I just wanted to know how attached you are to that antique in the kitchen, 'cause it just kind of…exploded…uh…" Before Newsie could erupt at this, Rizzo stared up at the ceiling over the bed. "Uh…you might wanna move!"

Newsie looked up and saw the ceiling directly over the bed bowing down, obvious even without his glasses: plaster flaking off, droplets of whitish water beginning to fall. The whole thing creaked ominously.

Several things happened in the next three seconds.

The Newsman shoved Gina off the bed sideways with a surge of adrenaline. Rizzo screamed as a chunk of rotted boards, corrupted plaster, and a large downpour of water caught him. The Newsman tried to get his legs under him and leap, when gallons and gallons of powerful water roared down on him as his upstairs neighbor's waterbed crashed through the ceiling directly onto his own bed. A piece of half-rotten wood hit Newsie on the head as the whole mess fell; the waterbed grazed his legs, throwing off his jump in midair. The added weight on the original and poorly-maintained floor made it buckle and instantly collapse, taking both beds down to the next floor with a terrible crash. He lunged toward Gina and managed to grab the edge of the new hole with his fingertips, crying out in pain and fear.

"Help! Help!" Rizzo shrieked, clinging to another part of the rough-edged hole. Newsie clung to the splintered boards, scrabbling to pull himself up even as he felt one of the half-boards he held onto creaking downward, about to fall in. Rats ran in, squeaking in alarm, and quickly pulled Rizzo out of danger. Gina seemed to have hit her head on his nightstand when Newsie had flung her off the bed; she groaned, one hand going to her forehead. Newsie heard more noise above and cringed; more chunks of the ceiling fell, spattering and bouncing off him on their way down. Below, shouts and more noise, and another loud crash. Straining, gasping, he dragged himself out of the hole right before his upstairs neighbor's night-table tottered over the edge and dropped past, scattering various personal items as it went. He pulled himself over to Gina, touching her shoulder. She raised her head, blinking groggily at him; he embraced her, and felt her putting an uncertain arm around him in return.

"Holy cow!" Rizzo exclaimed, looking up and then down at the twin holes in ceiling and floor. Voices several floors below seemed to be echoing that sentiment.

"Are you all right?" Newsie gasped, checking Gina's head, looking for wounds. He didn't see any blood, at least.

"Y-yeah," she stammered, shaking, slowly looking up to see the damage caused by the near-miss. Then she turned concerned eyes to him. "Newsie, you're bleeding!"

He touched a hand to his forehead, his fingers coming away with a stain of pink. He could also feel rough scratches where the floorboards had scraped his exposed chest as he hauled himself out of the hole. "I'm okay," he said, trying to control the shaking in his own voice. "As long as you're all right, I'm fine."

"A waterbed?" Gina asked, incredulous. The hole above was still dripping around all its edges. "Some idiot actually had a waterbed in this rat-trap?"

"Hey! Language," one of the rats squeaked indignantly.

"It _would_ fall on _him,"_ Rizzo said, glaring.

Astounded, Newsie glared back. "What the hey did I have to do with _that?_ Did you miss the fact that it nearly killed me?"

"Yeah? So what else is new?" the rat countered. Disgusted, he shooed a couple of his fellow rodents out of the room, heading after them. At the door he turned for a parting shot: _"Everything_ falls on you! You – are – a – menace! I am _not_ sticking around for another close call!" Grumbling agreement, the rats all left.

"I can't believe that," Gina breathed, still shivering, staring up at the hole. Distraught, Newsie held her tight, slowly getting her to sit up with him on the floor a few feet from the hole. No telling how dangerous the whole floor was now. Anxiously he looked around for any hint of instability, but couldn't tell if the remaining boards would be safe to step on, even for him.

"Let's get away from that," he suggested. Gina nodded at him, and together they edged away from the hole, only standing when they had their backs to the bedroom wall, then slowly moving sideways along it to the door.

"Your glasses," she said, but he pushed her out into the living area.

"No. I'll get them. Don't come back in here."

Cautiously, he inched forward until he could stand in the doorway to the tiny bathroom, firmly held the doorframe with one hand, and leaned out as far as he could. He couldn't reach his glasses, but he could reach the nightstand, and slowly tugged it closer. He put his glasses on finally, starting backwards when he could clearly see just how bad the damage was. Impossible to see much below unless he dared approach the edge of the hole, which he wasn't willing to risk, but he felt it was safe to assume his bed was little more than matchsticks and fluff now. He gathered up the few books on the nightstand, glad they seemed to have escaped harm, and took them out into the main room. Gina was shaking her head as the rats, lugging tiny suitcases and complaining in low tones, marched out his front door. Only Rhonda hesitated, looking between her fellow rats and Newsie as he emerged with his prized books.

Gina looked at Rhonda. "Could you do one more favor?" The rat shrugged. "Can you rustle up a couple of empty boxes for his stuff?"

Rhonda glanced up at Newsie. "Sure…why not." She scampered off. Newsie felt his legs trembling, and sat down hard on the sofa. Gina sat next to him, biting her lip and looking worried when she saw the red scrape-marks on his chest and lower arms.

"You saved me," she said quietly.

Feeling lightheaded, he only nodded. She pulled him to her, holding tight, and he closed his eyes, giving in to a shudder, thinking just how close a call that had been for them both. He muttered, "If that little rat hadn't come in…"

Gina was silent a moment, stroking his hair back. Then she touched the string bracelet still on his wrist. "Never doubt."

He wasn't sure her charm had anything to do with it, but he nodded. While he sat still, trying to calm his frantic heart, taking deep breaths, Gina mused aloud, "I guess we should call a cab."

"A cab?" Newsie frowned at her, confused. "What for?"

"Granted, you don't have a lot of stuff, but it'd be easier to drive over than carry it in several trips…"

"Stuff? Drive? Huh?"

Gina gestured at the open bedroom door. They could see droplets still pattering down. "Newsie…this place is uninhabitable."

He had to agree, but still didn't grasp what she was talking about. Looking into his eyes, she saw his confusion, and tenderly brushed a finger down his cheek. "You can stay with me. Just for now…or as long as you want. Okay?"

He stared at her, his jittery brain still not really present. Rhonda returned with two large cardboard boxes; she carried one overhead, another rat the other. The rats dumped the boxes down on the rug, and the other rat snorted in contempt at Newsie before trotting out the door again. Rhonda twitched her whiskers at Gina uncertainly. "Is this okay?"

"That'll be fine, thank you, Rhonda," Gina said.

"Well," the rat said, "Um. See ya." With a flick of her tail she was gone.

Newsie looked at Gina, bewildered. "Did you say move in with you?"

"Yep." She searched his gaze, concerned. "Is that okay with you?"

He couldn't form a coherent reply. Instead he just held onto her, trying to master his emotions, ashamed at his own fear, but unwilling to break away from her warm, safe arms.

He was embarrassed at how few possessions he really had; all his books, including the ones from the single shelf in the living area, didn't quite fill one of the boxes. He folded his clothes into the other one with a small collection of personal items, draping his two remaining clean jackets on hangers over the box. Gina insisted the framed Yerka prints not be left behind, and carried those. Neither spoke much during the cab ride to her apartment building. The Newsman was unwilling to admit just how deeply shaken the whole incident had made him, but he held tight to Gina's hand until the cab stopped. He followed her into the building a little nervously, lugging the heavier box of books, avoiding eye contact with the few other residents they passed on the way in and in the elevator up to her floor in the fifteen-story Art Deco-styled building. As they paused before her door and she fumbled out her keys, he muttered to her, "Are you sure this is all right? What about your landlord?"

"I actually own the apartment. My grandmama left it to me," she replied, opening the door. He hefted his box, following her inside, the atmosphere of the place unnerving him immediately. "Um, just set that wherever. I'm really sorry…I wasn't expecting you over just yet. Give me a sec?" Gina asked, and he nodded. She hurried back through a doorway, and the Newsman set down the books and looked around in uncertain awe.

The row of windows looking out to the street were uncovered save for a myriad of things hanging from hooks at various levels: ferns and cascading flowers in pots, round glass baubles, a woven web of some kind of thick string with feathery tassels, tiny windchimes which tinkled softly at the light breeze from the closing door. Below all that, bookshelves made from old apple crates held numerous large books on art and artists and titles relating to theatrical design. The furnishings were far nicer than what he'd had, including a large and well-stuffed leather couch with several sections, an old steamer trunk serving as a coffee table, a couple of Victorian armchairs, and through an actual arched doorway an elegant-looking wooden table with huge clawfoot legs and four matching chairs. A small octagonal fishtank with black gravel and reddish plastic plants slowly waving in a bubbling current was home to a school of tiny black and bright blue fish. Framed prints of Art Nouveau advertisements graced many of the walls except where a wardrobe with intricate carvings on the doors sat across from the couch. The floorboards were bare around the edges of the room, but several Oriental carpets had been laid throughout the living area, some overlapping. Some odd scent hung in the air, spicy and floral as the owner herself always was, but in a deeper, somehow more powerful way. Newsie thought, _So this is how Gypsies live?_ If an old woman in a shawl had popped out of the other doorway and offered to tell his fortune, he wouldn't have been surprised…though he probably would have fled anyway.

"Okay," Gina said, returning to the room. She noted his nervous expression, and halted. "Is…is everything all right?"

"Fine," he said at once, nodding. "Um…interesting art." He looked up at one particular print which featured a lithe green devil pouring roiling fumes from a bottle into a slender glass. The ad copy was in French, which he couldn't read.

"Oh, yeah. The absinthe one. Great, isn't it?" She looked around. "What about the one with the house underwater over there?"

"Huh?" he said intelligently.

Gina smiled. "Your print. 'Double Life.' Would it go well over there?" She pointed to a bare patch of wall near the arch to the dining room.

"You want to hang up the Yerka prints here?"

"Why not? Especially if you're going to be here a while," she offered, and he felt a flush stealing over his cheeks.

"Whatever you want," he said. Gina came and looked down at him a moment, sighing.

"We really should put something on those scratches. Come on into the kitchen. I'll make some tea for your nerves and bandage you up."

Newsie didn't know whether to refuse or welcome the offer, but he followed along, feeling overwhelmed. The kitchen was another cause for mild alarm. A low, multi-globed ceramic lamp gave off soft amber light, but even in its dim illumination he could see the myriad of strange herbs and flowery stems bunched and tied together upside-down, hanging from a rack over a work-counter; colored hand-dipped candles paired on strings dangling from a row of hooks on a wall; and on the marble slab of a counter itself, mortar-and-pestles and an ancient-looking book with a tarnished lock holding it closed. He hung back as Gina went to the sink and filled a copper kettle, placing it on the stove to heat up. "Uh…if you don't mind my asking…what exactly do you make in here?" Newsie asked hesitantly.

Gina laughed. "Everything! It's kind of a work area as well as a cooking area." She indicated the drying herbs. "My Grandmama Angie taught me herbal remedies, folklore from the old country, stuff like that. Nothing scary, Newsie. I promise." She mixed something in a cloth teabag and set it in a simple pottery mug. "Have a seat, and take off your shirt."

"Um," Newsie said, not entirely comfortable. But Gina wasn't taking no for an answer, and soon he found himself seated at a small café-style table in a corner, sipping something watery and floral from the steaming mug, trying to pretend he wasn't in a woman's apartment with his shirt off while she cleaned the slight wounds on his forehead, chest and arms. He knew he'd never win a beach-body contest, but Gina only smiled, kissed his cheek, and patched bandages over the treated scratches.

"Not so bad, is it?" she asked him as he rebuttoned his shirt.

"You have a very nice home," he managed, still feeling out of place.

"Thank goodness for Grandmama Angie. I'd never be able to afford it otherwise." After a pause, she switched topic. "You were my hero today," she said, looking him in the eye. He tried to shrug it off, embarrassed, but she caught his chin in her hand and made him meet her gaze. "Thank you, Newsie."

"I'm just glad you weren't hurt." He sipped more of the odd tea. "Uh…what is this stuff?"

"Chamomile, mugwort, and jasmine. Just to calm you down." She smiled at him again. "Is it helping?"

"I guess so," he replied. He reassessed internally, and realized he did feel tired. Of course, that could be the crash from the earlier adrenaline.

"Will you let me make you dinner?"

"No, I'm fine, really," he protested, feeling guilty. This was a lot for someone to do for him all at once.

"Suit yourself. _I_ am hungry, and I am cooking." She grinned. "Why don't you go check out the bedroom? I hung up your jackets on the door to the closet, and put your other things in the bottom dresser drawer."

"My…my things?" He realized that would have been his shorts as well as shirts and ties, and blushed deeply. "Uh…you didn't have to do that."

"Well, go check it out. Move stuff if you want. I don't mind," Gina offered. As Newsie reluctantly walked down the hallway to the bedroom and bath, he heard her add, "Cute polka-dots, by the way!"

Deeply mortified, Newsie stepped into Gina's bedroom. Her bed was the low-platform variety, with storage drawers underneath. He avoided it even though the colorful patchwork quilt of velvets and rich-toned patterned squares immediately caught his eye. The odd smell, some kind of incense, was even more powerful in here. He saw some red candles in brass holders atop the dresser; there seemed to be something else behind them, but he wasn't tall enough to see what. He wondered if all the exotic things were part of her heritage. He wondered what he'd gotten himself into. He wondered what the incense was; it was making him drowsy. He wondered why she kept a tasseled shawl draped and pinned to the wall over the bed. How soft was that bed, anyway? It looked soft… He rubbed his hand lightly over the surface of the quilt, attracted to the deep colors of it, dark green, indigo blue, burgundy red and bits of coppery thread woven here and there…

When Gina came looking for him almost a half-hour later to coax him to eat the stew with wild rice she'd thrown together, she found the Newsman curled up on her bed atop the quilt, sleeping soundly, his shoes and glasses still on. She smiled, watching him a moment, then gently removed the harder articles of clothing and set them safely aside. He stirred and mumbled but did not awaken. Gina moved silently to the altar on top of the dresser, opened the little doors, and looked inside it at the small figure posed within. It had an umbrella over its head, a large red heart sticker on its chest, and was a miniature dead ringer for the man asleep on her bed. She sent up a prayer of thanks, shut the altar again, and bent over to kiss the sleeping Newsman before she went to enjoy her dinner.


	17. Chapter 17

Eventually the unnerving silence awoke him.

The Newsman blinked, briefly panicked to find himself in a strange place and unable to see clearly. Then the previous night came back to him. Peering around, he discovered his glasses on a sturdy, small table swathed in a dark red paisley fabric next to the bed. He cleaned them and set them on his nose, puzzled to see the bed didn't look slept in. He'd woken with a soft throw blanket over him, still clothed in pants and shirt, atop the quilt. "Gina?" he called. No answer.

Nervously he got up and walked through the still apartment. The soft burbling from the aquarium was the only sound anywhere. He marveled that no noise from the street or her neighbors disturbed the peace of the place. This building must have been well-constructed, unlike his own digs…which made him grimace, wondering what would happen with _that_ mess. The phrase 'class-action lawsuit' came to mind fairly readily.

There was a large piece of paper folded like a tent on the otherwise smooth dining room table. From across the room he could read _"Newsie"_ writ large on it. He picked it up and read it in the comfortable light of the living room, envious of all her bright, large windows. _"Dear Sleeping Journalist,"_ Gina had penned in a graceful, looping hand, _"I didn't want to wake you. I have to be at the Sosilly all day – hanging and focusing lights all morning and afternoon, then first tech rehearsal tonight. Drew you a map if you want to come by and meet for dinner; I should have an hour free around five. I'm sure you can stay for rehearsal if you want, too. I'll clear it with Dr Rob, our director. Meanwhile feel free to settle in. I'll call at lunch; don't know when that'll be yet. Hope your wounds are feeling better today. Use anything you want. Talk soon… Yours, Gina."_ On the backside of the paper, a small sketch of the route to the Sosilly Theatre was accompanied by a phone number, presumably either the theatre or Gina's cell phone. Newsie wished he still had his own cell; the last one had been the property of the television station where he'd done local reports and the occasional filling-in for the weatherman, but that had been taken away when he was let go. The recession had bit everyone hard, necessitating his living in the should've-been-condemned rat house in the first place.

This…this was heaven by comparison. The apartment was probably three times the size of his place, with actual woodwork around windows and doors, decorative heating grilles in the floor, a large kitchen and a bathroom which made him pause in appreciation when he stepped inside it. She had a shower with an actual tub below it! Although the tilework looked older to him, everything was spotless. He noted, looking around the rooms more carefully and not allowing the bohemian feel of the place to continue throwing him off-kilter, everything was actually very neat. A little exotic for his taste, but tidy and organized.

Walking back through the living room, he noticed the pillow and rumpled blanket on the couch. Oh, no. Had she slept out here while he spent the night on her bed? Chagrined, he vowed to reverse that order tonight. She was being terribly generous just allowing him to stay there! He wondered how much he had left in his bank account. Enough to buy her dinner, at least?

Newsie checked his watch: just after ten. He probably had some time before she would call. He debated looking through the kitchen for food; he already felt terribly guilty. Sure enough, there was a small note inside the refrigerator as well: _"Go ahead. Whatever you want!"_ Oh, no. This was far too generous. He tromped down the part of his mind which was soaring triumphantly, telling himself it would be selfish to take advantage of this; he should be humble, appreciative, generous as possible in return; he ought to…he…

There was a tub of some kind of soup in the 'fridge. He could clearly see wild rice and vegetables, and when he opened it for a sniff, the odor which assailed his sensitive nose actually made him take a step back from the sheer pleasure of it.

He should eat this soup before it went bad. That's what he should do.

Sitting at the small kitchen table, wolfing down the warmed-up soup a few minutes later, he found he couldn't think clearly until it was gone. Immediately an image of Rizzo stealing his own food came to mind, and guiltily he cleaned up the dishes. He wandered the apartment, thinking. Relationships were certainly not something he'd had much practice with, but even he could see this called for something different, something truly appreciative and significant. Frustrated, he turned over a dozen different clichés in his head, dismissing them one after another. Surprised at himself, he realized he actually wanted to do something romantic for Gina. He had no idea what would be appropriate.

Who could advise him? The very thought of calling anyone for romantic help made him cringe in humiliation. Gonzo and Camilla had been together a long time…but knowing Gonzo, any suggestions he could make would be so bizarre as to be impracticable. Pepe? Newsie frowned. _Please._ Who, then?

Someone came to mind. He physically flinched. She'd probably kill him just for asking… Then again… Newsie rubbed the string bracelet around his wrist. He wondered if it was effective against karate chops.

After several minutes of internal debate, he finally sighed, steeled his nerves, and used the apartment's phone to call Scooter to ask for another number.

Piggy was not pleased; the phone rang just as her dressmaker was pinning up the hem on her brilliant new spring frock. It would have three tiers of lace and ribbon roses, each scalloped at a slightly different point for a lovely layered effect. Impatiently, Piggy gestured for her rhinestone-studded cell phone, and Foo Foo handed it up to her. "Yeah?" Piggy snapped. There was silence on the other end. Piggy growled, "Don't waste my time, jerk!" and was about to hang up when she heard a nervous throat-clearing on the other end. "Well? Who is this?"

"Uh…er…Miss Piggy. I'm sorry for tracking you down on your off day…"

The voice was familiar, male and a little scratchy around the edges, but she couldn't place it. "This is an unlisted number, bub, so you'd better have a really good reason for calling me! Now who is this?"

"Er…it's me. The Newsman."

Stunned, Piggy foundered a moment. "Newsgeek? Why…why would you…" Then she got it, and got angry. "Who gave you this number? Did the frog put you up to this? I'll kill him! Look, what part of _not a snowball's chance in –"_

"I need your help," the Newsman said. He sounded terrified.

Piggy took the phone away from her ear a moment, looking at it in confusion. Finally she put it back to her face and growled, "I'm not bailing you out of jail, either, or paying your hospital bills, if that's what you're after!"

He sounded desperate now. "No, no, not that…Miss Piggy…please! I…I need…romantic advice."

Piggy stared at the phone again, dumbfounded. "You? _You_ need romantic advice?"

"It's for Gina," he added.

"Who?"

"Gina. The…the young lady who's come to the theatre for me a few times. She's…um…she's…special. To me. I mean…she's done so much for me, and I just…I just want to repay her somehow. Something nice. And I thought you…uh…well, you know more about…these kinds of things…than anyone else."

Piggy waited to see if he was done stammering. "Lemme see if I get this," she said, beginning to be intrigued despite her annoyance. _"You_ are asking _moi_ for advice on what to do for your groupie?"

He seemed to be having difficulty answering. "Well?" she demanded.

The voice on the other end was timid. "Yes, Miss Piggy. You…well…you're the expert."

"Hang on," Piggy sighed to the dressmaker. "I gotta sit down for this one. Foo Foo, be a dear and pour me another cup of tea?" Once settled, she spoke into the phone again. "Newsgeek? You still there?"

"Yes?"

Piggy started to feel amused. He must be _really_ desperate if he was daring all this. "Well…I am _tres_ busy…but since _vous_ asked so nicely, I suppose I can spare just a _teensy_ moment. Although I'm not sure there's _anything_ that would be romantic coming from _you."_

"Thank you!" He sounded genuinely relieved, and then went right into barking-out-the-news mode. "Thank you thank you! See, my apartment is ruined because my neighbor's waterbed crashed through my bedroom and there's too many holes to stay there and she let me move in with her and _her_ place is really nice and she's done so much for me and I _really_ don't want to screw this up and…"

"Geez, concussion-brain, slow down!" Something he'd said struck her, and she asked in surprise, "Did you say you moved in with her?"

"Uh…yes."

"As in _moved in_ moved in?" Piggy was shocked.

"Uhm. Er."

"Good grief. She must be as brain-damaged as you." Who on earth would want that accident-attracting geek staying with them? "Well, it seems you've already skipped the courtship phase."

"No!" He sounded panicked. "No, I mean, sort of, that is…er…er…I'm just staying here. 'Til I find a new place. I mean, yes, we're dating, but it's not…"

"Listen, loser, do you want my help or not?"

"Yes…?"

"Then shut up a minute and let me think. This is a lot to take in." The Newsman waited in tense silence while Piggy considered the unbelievable ramifications of this information. She'd glimpsed the long-haired girl backstage twice now, and had to admit she had decent taste in clothes, if not in men. Clearly, not at the fashionista level of Piggy herself, but not too bad. Vaguely she recalled Kermit mentioning the redhead worked at another theatre; maybe she was a dancer? "Are you _sure_ she's dating you?"

Newsgeek sounded affronted. "Yes!"

"Don't snap at me, baggy-eyes. I'm just checking." Piggy thought some more, then sighed. "You want to do something romantic for her?"

"Yes," he said softly, and Piggy, startled, heard it. Whatever this mystery girl felt or didn't feel for the Muppet Theatre's much-ridiculed newscaster, _he_ was smitten. She paused, for a moment thinking of the times she'd heard that same tone in her frog's voice, when he looked at her all wistfully; those times she knew he really did adore her… Snapping herself out of the reverie, she was all business again.

"Okay, Newsgeek, listen up…and grab a pen…"

"Meep me mee mee!"

Honeydew hurried over to check the readout screen which his colleague was so frantically gesturing at. "Oh, my goodness! You're absolutely right! Quick, let's go find it!" Picking up his revised and rebuilt psychokinetic field sensor, the scientist hastened to the lab door. Beaker hung back, in no hurry to repeat his experience in tracking down the field's source last time. "Well, come along, Beakie! This could be the frontier of a new and exciting subfield in variable explositropic energy modulation! You don't want to be left behind, do you?"

Beaker gestured back at the mainframes, where needles tracked the energy like a seismograph, looking from them to Honeydew. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he trotted after the eager Honeydew. At least he didn't have to go first this time…

The investigative pair cautiously made their way up to the mainstage level, Bunsen sweeping the sensor to and fro in front of him. "How interesting! Since we've fixed the sensor, there seem to have been more incidences of the strange energy bursts right here in the theatre! Oh, isn't this something?" he asked Beaker, smiling.

Beaker shook his head rapidly, but Bunsen was already moving on, checking the readings on the dark stage. "Hmm. By my calculations, I believe the most recent high spike to have been right here yesterday. How intriguing! Did you see anything out of the ordinary yesterday, Beaker?"

"Huh-uhh," Beaker said, nervously peering up and all around. He'd spent the day in the lab, happily working on his own mold cultures while Honeydew fiddled with the new instruments during the time he wasn't helping with the news sketch. It had been a blissfully peaceful day as far as Beaker was concerned.

"Hmm. I'm getting some current readings, although they're not as strong as these. The newest signal seems to be coming from…right…through…here…" Honeydew tracked the quietly beeping signal through the backstage area. "My goodness! It's moving! It's gone downstairs!"

All sorts of hideous possibilities flashed through Beaker's mind. He began waving his hands and shaking his head at his compatriot. "Meep! _Meep_ mee mee meep me mee…" Honeydew wasn't listening, heading for the stairs down to the green room and the canteen. As they reached the top of the stairs, Honeydew suddenly thrust the sensor into Beaker's hands.

"Go ahead, Beakie! Let's see what's making that energy field!"

 _"_ _Meeeeep!"_ Beaker protested, trying to brace himself, but the heavy sensor in his hands nearly toppled him. Beaker stumbled down a few steps before he caught himself, hanging onto the railing.

"Beaker, please do be careful with that equipment! The last one was so thoroughly destroyed it took me days to salvage the main components!" Honeydew said, irritated. Beaker felt like giving him a meep of his mind, but continued down the stairs with trepidation. They both heard noises coming from below. "Oh, my! What do you suppose that is?" Honeydew asked, a worried hand touching his mouth.

They peered slowly over the enclosed rail of the stairs. Rizzo and a number of rats were slinging bedrolls and suitcases under a bench and flopping down on and around it. "I shoulda made the geek pay cab fare," Rizzo complained, panting.

"Man, who'd'a thunk we'd wind up here again?"

"Yeah…I thought you said we were done eating Chef's cooking!"

"I need a mineral water…"

Startled, Honeydew and Beaker looked at one another. Beaker pointed the sensor at the rats. It beeped more strongly. Bunsen took the device from him, fiddling with dials and frowning at the results. "That's very odd," he said.

"Hey, look who's talkin'," Rizzo quipped.

The scientists came the rest of the way down into the green room; Beaker continued to glance around fearfully, convinced the other shoe had not yet dropped. "Excuse me, but you seem to be giving off an inordinate amount of psychokinetic energy," Honeydew told the rats, sweeping the sensor over them.

"Hey, point that thing somewhere else!" Rizzo said.

 _"_ _Who's_ a psycho?" another demanded.

"Is that geek-speak for I-just-hauled-this-danged-suitcase-for-hours-and-I'm- _outta_ -energy?"

"I _really_ need a mineral water, you guys…"

"Hmm," Bunsen mused, scratching his bald head. Beaker looked the rats over, looked at the readout screen, and started to relax.

"Mee me, mee meep mee?" he suggested.

"No, I recalibrated for that," Honeydew told him. "How very odd. They're all tainted with the same energy readings, but I don't believe they're the true source of it…"

"Hey buddy, gimme a boost?" one of the rats asked Beaker. Obligingly he lifted the rodent onto the kitchen counter, where it began foraging through the kitchen supplies stacked there. "Aw, man! Perrier! Why can't we ever get some San Pellegrino?" Disgruntled, the rat hefted a large green bottle. "Catch, Marty!"

"Whoof…" puffed the flattened rat on the floor beneath the bottle. Those rats not still panting from exhaustion tittered.

"This bears further investigation," Honeydew said, drawing Beaker away from the rats. "We may have to completely reconfigure…"

"Meep meep, me mee?" Beaker suggested. Honeydew snapped his fingers.

 _"_ _Ask_ them where they've been? What a brilliant idea, Beakie!" As Beaker shrugged happily to himself, Honeydew turned back to the rodents now passing the bottled water back and forth. One of them had produced an harmonica from somewhere and was playing a mournful Western tune on it. They already had their bedrolls in a circle around a tiny campfire in an ashtray on the floor. "Ah, excuse me, my rodentia friends: might I ask where you just came from?"

"The eighth circle of Heck, that's where!" Rizzo exclaimed angrily. "I tell ya, ya try to be good company, give a little fashion advice, make sure burglars don't break in when he's not home, and all for what?"

"Me mee moo mee?" Beaker asked.

"Doc, I think your friend there needs Hooked On Phonics or somethin'. I can never understand him," Rizzo complained.

"Beaker asked, 'when who's not home?'" Bunsen translated. He turned to his colleague. "That was a very good question, Beakie, but I don't think it has much to do with a psychokinetic –"

"That yellow geek," another rat grumbled.

"You know – the one who always gets hit by falling stuff," added Rizzo.

"I didn't realize our Newsman kept pets," Honeydew said, curious. "How interesting. Was he running any experiments?"

"Aaagh! Don't _say_ that word!" Rizzo, on his feet, trembled in remembered anguish.

"Meep mee," Beaker said, patting the air in front of him in an attempt to be calming.

"I fear I'm not making myself clear…oh, dear. Beakie?"

"Mee mee meep me _meep,_ me mee-ee meep meep?"

Rizzo shook his head. "Yeah…sure, whatever. Look, nice talkin' with you guys an' all, but we hauled this stuff all night and we'd really like a little shut-eye for a while, okay?"

"Did you ever observe the Newsman conducting experiments with psychokinetic field energy?" Honeydew asked patiently. Beaker nodded, rolling his eyes; that's what _he'd_ asked…

"Is _dat_ what dey call it dese days?" another rat mumbled, to assorted snickers.

"He was experimenting with _something,_ that's for sure!"

"Yeah – figuring out how lips work finally!"

Bunsen sighed. "This is unproductive. Come, Beaker. Let's go back to the lab and see if we can't puzzle out these readings."

Beaker looked from the chortling rats to the retreating scientist, hesitantly pointing at the rats. "Uh meep…meep mee me?"

"Well, that's nice to hear, but I hardly think the Newsman's personal life has any bearing on our energy field mystery! Now come _along,_ Beakie! We have a lot of data to go over!"

Sighing, Beaker followed Bunsen through the door to the tunnel, heading back to the lab.

Gina emerged from the restroom in the women's dressing room to find Kayla, the stage manager, giggling and waiting for her. "What's so funny?"

"Uh…I think your date's here," Kayla said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the green room. "I didn't know you were into guys that short."

"He's a Muppet." Gina was immediately angry; seeing it, Kayla wiped the smile from her face. "Is that a problem for you?"

"A Muppet? Like those…uh, people…the ones who run the Muppet Theatre?"

"Exactly. He works there. A little respect for a fellow performer, huh?" Gina snapped, striding out of the dressing room with a flick back of her ponytail. She looked around the green room, but saw only a couple of her colleagues. Puzzled, she walked slowly across the room, looking around carefully, but didn't see Newsie anywhere. She was about to go into the mainstage area of the large black-box theatre when Scott stopped her.

"Hey, your friend's waiting for you out back. I helped him get the table set up," Scott said.

"Uh…thanks," Gina replied, surprised. Table? She reversed direction, going from the green room into the small courtyard which the Sosilly shared with a bazaar of small shops. About ten feet from the back door, beneath a gingko tree, the Newsman stood in his usual brown and tan sportscoat, waiting for her. Cradled in his arms was a bouquet of wildflowers, ferns and grasses spilling out above daisies, bluebells, and scarlet trumpetflowers. He offered it to her as she neared him. She couldn't help but smile at the tentatively hopeful look on his face. "Wow. These are gorgeous! Thank you."

"How's your day?" he asked. He seemed more nervous than usual.

"Oh, okay so far. All the lights are focused and gelled now." She could tell he didn't understand what she meant, but he nodded anyway. She grinned, sniffing the flowers. "Gelled means we put color in front of them, so they won't be plain white lights."

"Right," he nodded. "Uhm. I…I brought you dinner. If that's all right."

"Newsie, you didn't have to go to any trouble," Gina said, kneeling to kiss him and exchange a hug. She could feel him trembling. "Are you okay?"

"Now?" chirped a voice somewhere above.

"No, not yet," Newsie said.

Gina frowned. "Who are you talking to?"

"Uh, nothing. You'll see. Here…" He led the way to a small table; Gina recognized it as an old ice-cream parlor table, with the heart-backed wire chairs, which the Sosilly kept in its prop furniture room. A tall vase with water was set upon it to accept the bouquet; Gina put the flowers into it, smiling.

"Now?" the odd voice came again; Gina looked up into the tree, almost positive the sound had been above her.

"Not _yet,"_ Newsie growled up at the tree. To Gina he hurriedly said, "Please, have a seat. I'll get dinner."

"Um…okay," she said, sitting on one of the round chairs, wondering what all the fuss was about. Newsie opened a small cooler; she wondered if he'd lugged it from her apartment. He laid out two chilled bowls of salad greens, fresh soft rolls, two large strawberry parfaits, tableware and cloth napkins, and then poured two champagne flutes of something sparkling.

"It's actually white grape juice," he admitted as she took a sniff. "I figured you wouldn't drink before you had to go back to work…" When she looked over at him, his expression was so worried it almost made her smile. "Is it…is it enough? I couldn't really afford caviar, or oysters…"

Gina pulled him in for a kiss. "It's perfect. Thank you."

 _"_ _Now?"_ came the voice from above.

He nodded. "Now."

A trilling voice burst into song: "Yooouuuuuu…send me…darling yoooouuuu… send me…"

Gina laughed, seeing the large bird with pink feathers and a puffed-out chest finally. Newsie glanced up at it, then hopefully at Gina. "Did you arrange this?" she asked.

"I wasn't sure what song to pick, so I told him to choose," Newsie confessed. He took her hand, studying her eyes carefully. "I…I wanted to do something…romantic for you, and I, uh, heard that a dinner for two _al fresco_ was a nice thing in the springtime."

Above, the bird yodeled loudly, "Honest you dooOOOoooOOOooo…"

Gina started giggling. She masked it by starting in on the salad, which proved to be a nice mix of wild greens and shredded fresh veggies. Well, no one ever said dating a Muppet was going to be an average affair…

Newsie kept pausing to gaze raptly at Gina. She seemed to like it all. Relieved, he thought about everything Piggy had suggested, crossing 'dinner al fresco' off his mental list, but then wondered how on earth he was going to manage the sailboat in moonlight, diving for pearls for her, a Paris fashion show, or dancing all night. "I don't even know how to sail," he muttered to himself.

"What's that?"

"Uh, nothing. I picked the strawberries myself," he offered.

"They're fantastic. Thank you, Newsie."

"I made sure to only get the ones not old enough to talk yet," he assured her.

"Um…okay," Gina said, eyeing the spoonful of whipped cream and fruit she'd been about to put in her mouth. Unperturbed, Newsie started in on his own parfait, unconcerned about sentient berries. With a silent sigh, she followed suit.

No one said it was going to be normal…


	18. Chapter 18

The Newsman kept silent, fascinated, as he watched Gina bring up or down the seventy-five dimmers active on the long lighting board, each of them controlling one or two or a set of lighting instruments. The lighting and sound booth was above the audience level, just a little below the network of metal catwalks which formed the lighting grid for the theatre, and quite often when her hands moved across the computer keyboard to manipulate the lights as the rehearsal went on below, Newsie could see the physical effect her actions caused, as instruments within sight of the booth's large window brightened or dimmed. It reminded him of the way Dr Teeth's lithe fingers moved across an organ keyboard to bring forth a multitude of electric sounds. Gina had a headset on, and the tall pale blonde man who seemed to be both her boss and her friend was sitting somewhere in the empty audience seats, directing her light-playing through the earphones. The booth and the theatre were very dark except for the stage. He wasn't used to so much darkness; the Muppet Theatre always had low-level house lights on, and even backstage was reasonably bright.

He felt superfluous, but was grateful Gina had invited him to stay in the booth with her all the same. He didn't disturb her while she worked, all her focus on the board in front of her. A few people had given him odd looks, making him feel like an intruder; it was obvious these people, actors and techies both, had worked together often before. They seemed as close-knit among themselves as his own colleagues back at the Muppet Theatre usually were. Then again, he'd never felt he belonged there either, so the feeling of exclusion wasn't new. Alone of the people here, the tall gent Gina called Scott had seemed friendly to Newsie, even helping him find a suitable table for his dinner with Gina. Sitting inconspicuously behind her, Newsie looked out at the play below, able to hear the lines through the open door to the grid. It seemed like these performers rehearsed a great deal more than he'd ever seen the Muppets do, going over and over scenes and even single lines, the show's director stopping and starting them so many times Newsie wondered how they accomplished anything. _None of them could deliver cold newscopy in a live show,_ he thought, momentarily proud of his own job. Then again, if he had the benefit of a rehearsal, perhaps none of the things which usually befell him would catch him off-guard…

When everyone took a break, Gina removed the headphones, beckoning Newsie to stand next to her at the board. She surprised him happily by putting her hands on his cheeks and kissing him deeply. "Hi," she grinned at him.

"Hi," he replied breathlessly.

"Bored yet?"

"No, not at all! This is all very interesting," he assured her. "It's a very different experience from just watching _'Mac-'"_

She put a hasty hand over his mouth, silencing him. Startled, he stared at her; she shook her head emphatically. "Never, _never_ say that!"

"Say what? _'Mac—'"_

She grabbed his mouth again, and he gave her a confused look. "Mmf?" he asked.

"Look, it's an old theatre superstition, okay? Supposedly there's a _real_ curse in the play, the witches' curse, and you never, ever say a line from the play, or even the _name_ of the play, while you're in the building, unless you're actually performing it or rehearsing it right that second. Which means for you and I, even a mention is totally forbidden," Gina explained.

"That's ridiculous!" he objected. "There's no such thing as a curse!"

"Doesn't something bad happen every time you say 'that's ridiculous'?"

"Er," he choked, taken aback.

"You get my point?"

"But a real curse?" he argued. She nodded seriously. Frowning, he asked, "Then what do you call the play?"

"The Scottish Play. Sometimes, Shakespeare's Scottish Play."

"They named it after me," lanky, laid-back Scott stated, walking into the booth from the door to the lobby. "I'm cursed."

"Really?" Newsie brightened, thinking they had something in common. "People say _I'm_ jinxed."

"Neither of you are any such thing," Gina snorted.

"You got her to go out with you," Scott told Newsie. "Trust me. You are _not_ jinxed."

Newsie flushed, pleased, exchanging a smile with Gina. Scott leaned over the board, twiddling with one of the multiple sliders which could manually control the lights. "Huh. Didn't we replace the lamp in that one Fresnel on Saturday?"

"Yeah, why?" Gina asked.

"It's out again. Maybe it's a bad instrument."

"I'll go get it and swap it out," Gina offered, standing and stretching.

"Thanks. I know it's tiny, but it's the perfect downlight for area C. It's Mac's special for the banquet scene."

"Yep. I'm on it," Gina promised. She smiled at Newsie. "Want to see the grid?"

He looked nervously up and out at the black catwalks of metal gratings, almost invisible in the darkened theatre. "Uh...is it safe?"

She laughed. "Of course! Come on."

In some trepidation, Newsie climbed the short ladder behind her. He glanced up once as he did so, had a very good view of Gina's rear in her tight black leggings, and quickly looked down again, flushed and ashamed of himself. He thought he heard Scott snicker.

At the top of the ladder Newsie found himself standing on some kind of metal screening, all painted black. He could see right through it to the stage floor, some twenty-five feet down. He hesitated, clinging to the upright bar suspending the grid from the ceiling a few feet up, unwilling to proceed, but Gina walked right out along it, not even bothering with the safety railing on either side of the narrow walkway. She realized he wasn't moving, and turned back, smiling, gesturing for him to follow. The Newsman took a deep breath and one step out over the empty air. He kept firm hold of the railing, taking anxious step after step along the grid. It seemed solid enough beneath his dress shoes, but the sensation of suspension high above the audience seats made his heart jitter.

When he caught up to Gina, she was looking around. Two other catwalks split off from the central one, forming a rough hexagon encircling a smaller square, all raised above the performance area. Numerous black-metal lighting instruments were clamped from bars and railings everywhere, all pointing down at some angle, each of them plugged with thick cables into electrical outlets. "Cool, huh?" Gina asked him. "I never get tired of being up here. Beats the heck out of sawdust in the scene shop!"

Newsie was tempted for a moment to grab her and hold tight, but her utter fearlessness made him ashamed. He just gave her a nod, both hands gripping the railing on either side of the walk, trying not to let her see how frightened his breathing had become. Gina checked the instruments on either side of her, pushing her ponytail back with one absent hand as she bent over to peer closely at the ones nearest. She straightened up and called back to the booth, "Hey, Scott, I can't tell which one it is! Can you bring it up for a sec?"

In the faint red light of the booth window, Scott nodded and did something to the control board. Gina bent over again, and Newsie looked down as well, gulping, trying to focus on the lights hanging off the bottom rails of the catwalk instead of the stage below. "What are you looking for?" he asked her.

"A light that keeps not working," she murmured back.

"If it's not working, how will you see where it is?" he wondered.

"Listen. You should be able to hear the current."

Curious despite his fear, Newsie bent over as she was doing, tilting one ear toward the snakes of cables everywhere. He _did_ hear a soft humming sound, very low and carrying in that almost inaudible thrum the promise of power, electricity running through the complicated network of the grid. "Here!" he told her, pleased to be doing something useful. He reached for a specific cable which seemed to be the source of the faint sound. "I think it's this –"

The shock of it blew the breath from his chest. Dimly he heard voices yelling. He could see only blackness and sparking stars, could feel his whole body jittering, and then suddenly a pain like being kicked in the chest sent him crashing to the metal floor of the grid.

The pain in his chest was horrible. He heaved a breath, realized he was crying, and lay still, unable to stop right away. The surface beneath him seemed soft, and as he blinked to clear his vision, there was too much light above him to still be on the catwalk. "Newsie," he heard Gina pleading, "Newsie, can you hear me?"

He tried to answer, but could only groan, pain thick in his throat. He felt something soft dabbing at his eyes, wiping away his tears. Ashamed, he tried to brush it away, and then soft kisses touched his cheeks, his nose.

"Damn," someone muttered.

"That was fast thinking," an older voice commented.

"Always keep a board handy," the first voice said; Newsie thought it may have been Scott. "Hey, man, you okay?"

"We should call an ambulance," a feminine voice insisted.

Newsie managed to focus, and saw Gina right beside him, and several other faces behind her. He felt around with shaking hands, discovering he was on a low couch of rough fabric. Gina knelt next to him, taking one of his hands between both of hers, kissing his fingers. She looked very upset. "What…happened?" Newsie asked; his voice sounded sluggish to him.

"That cable you grabbed had a short," Scott informed him, leaning over from just behind Gina. "Nobody knew. You got fried for a couple of seconds."

Gina tossed her head to the side, glaring at the assembled people. "What _I_ want to know is how the hell this happened!" she said angrily.

A short, round man who'd been pointed out to Newsie earlier as the director of the play shook his head. "I thought you two had inspected all the cables before the lights were hung?"

"We _did,"_ Gina said darkly. "They were all fine!"

"I…don't understand," Newsie mumbled. He felt heavy and shaky, and couldn't sit up yet. "I was fried?"

Gina stroked his hair back, smoothing it down. "The cable wasn't safe. It had the ground wire loose. Your shoes…" She took a deep breath, clearly close to tears herself. "You don't have rubber soles. You formed the ground link to the grid. The current went through you. It could've…it could've killed you." She sniffled, took a deep breath, and nodded up at Scott. "Scott knocked you loose."

Uncomprehending, Newsie looked up at Scott, who gave a lopsided smile and mimed hitting a baseball. "Batter up."

"He hit me?" Maybe that explained the sore ribs. "Why?"

"To knock you loose from the current," Gina explained, still stroking his hair. "I couldn't…couldn't grab you…it would've got me too. Not as bad, but I wouldn't have been able to help…"

"I killed the dimmer and ran up with our emergency board," Scott added. "Sorry about that, man. Trust me, better a broken rib or two than a crispy critter."

Still not understanding much of this, Newsie just held tight to Gina's hand, closing his eyes. She kissed his fingers again. Behind her, one of the actors murmured, "Curse."

"Bull -!" someone else hissed. "Nobody's said the word!"

"It's gotta be. That cable was checked."

"So they say," another voice chimed in quietly, and was immediately shushed.

The director sighed. "Do we need an ambulance?"

Newsie shook his head. His heart was still skipping every few beats, but he didn't want to go to a big scary hospital. "Are you sure?" Gina asked him. Eyes still shut, he nodded.

"Okay," the director said. "All right, everyone, back out there. I know this was exciting, but we really, really need to lock down that scene between Mac and Lady M tonight. Scott, can you two pick this back up tomorrow afternoon?"

"Sure."

"All right," Gina agreed.

"Okay then. Actors, I need Rex and Shannon right now; everyone else, don't go anywhere. We still have notes." The gathering of people in the green room broke up, and in a few minutes Newsie opened his eyes to see the room empty except for Gina, still holding onto him. Tears gleamed at the corners of her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Newsie mumbled at her.

"What are you sorry for? You're the one who nearly got killed, and I…I just had to stand there, trying to kick the plug loose, watching you…" she couldn't finish the sentence, beginning to cry. He tried to shake his head at her, and she leaned over and embraced him gently. "I should never have asked you to come up there!"

He held onto her, feeling embarrassed for having yet again fallen victim to something stupid. A thought came to him, and he muttered into her ear, "What would have happened if you'd grabbed the cable instead?"

"Oh, same thing. Maybe not as bad, but two hundred and twenty volts is still a punch even if you've got the right shoes," she sighed, pulling away to look in his eyes.

"Then I'm glad it was me," Newsie said. When Gina shook her head, he insisted, "This kind of thing always happens to me! Gina, I told you: I'm jinxed." At least this time, he reflected, someone had been there to allay some of the damage, and people even gathered around to see if he was all right afterward. That was new. He glanced at his left wrist. The bracelet she'd made him looked singed. Actually, he noticed, all of him looked singed, especially on his left side; he'd picked up the cable with his left hand. It felt prickly now, as though he'd stuck hundreds of tiny needles in it. "Ow," he breathed. His heart rate was slowing, falling into its normal pattern, but little tingles shivered all through his limbs, and his chest felt stomped on. "Did your friend…did he really hit me with a baseball bat?"

Gina, sniffling, managed a small smile. "No. A two-by-four."

"Ow."

"Can you move?"

He tried. Everything still ached. "Never mind," Gina told him. "Lay still." She readjusted herself, sitting beside him on the unwashed shag rug, not letting go of his unhurt hand. "I've been shocked before. Not that badly, but I know how much it hurts. You feel like it's hard to breathe?" He nodded. "Yeah. That part goes away eventually. Just keep still. It's going to be okay."

Newsie closed his eyes again, feeling the air moving through his nose, his lungs. He wasn't sure why this particular shock felt scarier than most of the horrible things he'd suffered through the years, but it did. Then he realized: the simple chance of his picking up the faulty cable had prevented Gina from doing it instead. One simple, unlikely move. He tightened his grip on her hand, swallowing with a dry throat.

He was deeply glad it had been him instead.


	19. Chapter 19

Walking slowly back to Gina's place, the Newsman hoped the weak feeling would be gone by tomorrow night. He doubted he could take a night off from the Muppet Theatre. Scott accompanied them, from time to time conversing in a deep but friendly voice. "So…they call you Newsman, right? You do an act at the Muppet place?"

Newsie nodded tiredly. "It's not an act."

"Stuff falling on you? The time the crocodile ate you? Aw, c'mon," Scott replied in disbelief.

"Wasn't as bad as Carl the monster," Newsie said, shuddering in remembered unpleasantness.

"Dude, you're a trip," Scott laughed. He nudged Newsie's shoulder with a bony elbow. "You must have one heckofa sense of humor to get _her_ attention."

Newsie blushed up at Gina, surprised to see her turning pink as well. "I keep telling you, Scott: I have a thing for serious men. Not overgrown teenagers."

"Who're you callin' overgrown?" Scott demanded, making ugly faces at her.

Gina giggled. Newsie felt a pang of jealousy…but then Gina put her arm around his shoulders, drawing him a little closer as they walked.

As they neared her apartment building, Scott said, "I'm really sorry you got shocked, dude."

Newsie tried to shrug it off. "I try not to let it get to me anymore. Thank you for, uh, hitting me."

Scott showed a big horsey grin. "Anytime. Gina, see you tomorrow at one?"

"Yep." Gina sighed. The tall young man gave her a friendly slap on her shoulder, then leaned over and offered his hand to Newsie.

"So, nice meeting you. I promise no more live cables if you come back."

Unsure what to say to that, Newsie just nodded and shook hands. Scott sauntered off, leaving the other two at the foot of the stairs to the apartment building. Gina smiled uncertainly at Newsie. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Wonderful," he replied, without much enthusiasm, starting slowly up the broad steps. Every nerve still felt strained and exhausted.

"Um…you don't have to come to my work sessions if you'd rather not. I should never have asked you to come up on the grid in the first place," Gina apologized.

"I'm fine."

She stopped him before they went in the lobby door, crouching to meet his unhappy gaze. "Newsie? I really, really am sorry."

"Not your fault," he muttered. "I'd just be in the way, I know."

"What?" She drew back, surprised. "No, you wouldn't. What gave you that idea?"

"I don't know any of this technical stuff," he pointed out, and gestured back the way Scott had departed. "I'm sure your friends are better qualified to help you out, anyway…"

"Newsie? Are you jealous?"

"Of course not," he insisted, though he could feel heat rising in his face. "Your friend obviously knows you very well; you work together, I respect that; clearly he thinks fast on his feet –"

She shut him up with a kiss. Embarrassed, he tried at first to pull back, but Gina grabbed his head in her hands, holding him there, her lips on his, moving from one side of his nose to the other, until finally he gave in with a weak sigh and kissed back. When they gently parted after a minute, Gina said, "I do not want you to _ever_ be jealous of Scott, or anyone else! Newsie…I have wanted you for months. I'm not letting you go. Okay?"

He saw the fierce sincerity in her eyes, gulped, and nodded. Standing, she walked with him into the building. In the elevator, she murmured, with a sly grin, "Besides…if Scott's apartment was caved in, I'd make _him_ sleep on the couch…not the bed."

All his insecurities were put to the test an hour later when he tentatively emerged from the bathroom, cleaned up and wearing his favorite pj's (the ones with the all-over blue polka-dots on white) and soft white bunny slippers. The bedroom was dark, a single candle on the night-table showing him only the dim outlines of the furniture. "Well?" Gina whispered across the room at him. "Come on in here!"

"Promise you're not looking?"

"Newsie…" she sighed. "Okay, I'm not looking."

Reluctantly he crept across the room, found the edge of the bed, and carefully felt around, finding the quilt and sheet turned down for him and that side of the large mattress vacant. Relieved, he climbed in, placing his slippers primly by the bedside on the floor and his glasses on the table. However, no sooner had he pulled the quilt up than he heard a low chuckle behind him. "Nice pj's."

"You said you weren't looking!" he protested, embarrassed.

"Come on, be serious. I _like_ looking." She giggled. Newsie jumped when he felt her touch on his shoulder. "Warm enough in those?"

"Yes, thank you," he muttered, having deeply mixed feelings about sharing a bed. Although it was assuredly exciting, he thought of how intimate the two of them had been just before the ceiling of his bedroom had caved in. Somehow, what he'd allowed then, and the disaster which quickly followed, seemed linked in his mind – punishment for having been so _very_ indecent! What would his mother have thought? He was briefly grateful that august lady was no longer around – and then immediately felt guilty for thinking that way. Gina's hand slid over his chest, finding the buttons on his pajama shirt and starting to unbutton one. "What – what are you doing?"

"Trust me. This quilt is velvet-backed. It'll be _very_ warm."

He squirmed away until he found he'd run out of bed. "Uh…Gina…"

She moved closer, leaning over to kiss him, planting soft lips on his cheek, his nose, his mouth. "Shhh." She kept kissing; he felt strange about responding. Kissing with one's clothes on was one thing, he felt; this was far, _far_ more suggestive. "Mmm." He felt her touch on his collar, then the second button being undone, then her hand sliding over his chest.

"Uhm, Gina, er…" He reached out a hand under the covers, hoping to gently stop her advances. His sense of vulnerability jumped a hundredfold when he touched her bare skin. "Agh!"

She paused, then started giggling. "Uh...are you…are you…wearing anything?" Newsie stammered. Her fingers resumed their exploration under his pajama shirt.

"Nope."

"Oh," he whimpered.

"Do you trust me, Newsie?"

She'd maneuvered herself so she was right next to him, her face above his when he blinked up into the near-darkness at her. He stared at her, his heart racing. She waited, her expression one of patience and tenderness. She didn't seem to be mocking him. There was no malice in those eyes. He swallowed. "Yes," he croaked.

"Then relax…"

He felt her undoing the rest of the buttons, peeling the shirt open. He gulped nervously. She kissed his mouth again, then placed her lips against his chest…then lower…

After a moment, not sure if this was his heaven or his hell, Newsie reached up and touched her in return, his hands shaking.

"And you will never guess who called _moi_ today, asking for advice on love," Miss Piggy said, her voice light.

Kermit, trying to focus on Bogie and Bergman, sighed. Why had she asked to watch _'Casablanca'_ with him if she was going to sit here and chatter throughout the film? "Who?" he asked automatically, then popped another dragonfly crisp in his mouth. He chewed absently, his eyes following Bogie as the dramatic confrontation over Sam's piano took place onscreen.

Piggy stretched languidly along the other half of the sofa, her toes tickling her frog's legs. Kermit shot her an annoyed look. "That ridiculous yellow wimp," Piggy chuckled.

"Uh-huh." Onscreen, the great line which so many people misquoted, once Bergman had left the bar: _"Play it, Sam. You played it for her, you can play it for me!"_ What a great line. Such underlying bitterness, you couldn't help but feel Rick's pain…

"Kermie, are _vous_ even listening?"

"Huh? Sure. Sure I am, Piggy. Pepe asked you for advice." Kermit tried to return his full attention to the movie, but Piggy sat up, her voice turning gruff.

"I said _wimp,_ not _shrimp!_ I'm talking about that Newsgeek; you know, the one who doesn't seem to have any purpose other than to have things fall on him?" Piggy growled.

"The Newsman? What about him?"

"He _called_ me. He actually begged for _my_ advice on matters of the heart," Piggy explained, her voice turning sweet once more, proud of her reputation for romance. "Apparently, he needed ideas for what he could do to impress his girlfriend. I doubt there's anything that would accomplish _that,_ but I gave him a list anyway."

"Huh," Kermit said, chewing another buggy snack. "That's strange."

"Why would it be strange?.. Ah, ha ha ha, Kermie," she cooed dangerously, "surely _vous_ are not implying that _moi_ would not be the expert in all questions of _love?"_

"What?" Exasperated, Kermit turned to her finally. "Piggy…of course you are. Why, you're the most romantic pig I know!"

She paused, then asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Er…"

"Are you saying because I'm a pig, I can't be romantic?"

"No! No, I-"

"I'll have you know, buster, that I have more _romance_ and _tenderness_ in my little finger than some _frogs_ have in their whole bodies!"

Kermit cringed away from the enraged pig. "Uh, no, no, of course I didn't mean _that,_ Piggy! No, you're – you're –" He fished for the right words, the calming words. "Why…I've never met _anyone_ who knows as much about matters of the heart as you do! And I'll admit, you've even taught me a thing or two about, uh, about…about being attentive, and caring, and listening to the other person's needs."

She melted. "Ohhh, Kermie…really?"

"Yes! Yes!" the frog nodded emphatically. "Why, I was just another ignorant bachelorfrog before you came along, Piggy! I'm grateful at how much romance you've taught me."

"Oh, Kermie…"

She snuggled tightly against him a moment. "Let's…why don't we watch this _romantic_ movie?" Kermit suggested.

"Yes! A classic of the silver screen," Piggy agreed, bouncing up, resettling herself with one arm around him, but not squishing him. Relieved, Kermit offered her the bowl of popcorn with extra butter she'd made for herself, and she cooed at him again. "Thank you, Kermie."

After a few more minutes of comfortable silence between them, as Rick decided what to do about the return of his _femme fatale,_ Piggy mused aloud, "I wonder if that geek really did move in with that girl."

"Who?"

Piggy blinked at him. Her voice turned rough again. "Newsgeek."

"What about him?"

"Didn't you hear a word I just said?"

"Uh…"

 _"_ _Attentive,_ and _caring,_ and _listening,_ huh?"

"Erk!"

After she stormed off, Kermit tried to watch the rest of the movie, but it was hard to do with his neck squashed down into his body.

The quiet _brps_ and _beeps_ of the lab equipment weren't soothing Beaker to sleep as they usually did. He'd turned in at nine when Honeydew had, each in their own camp cot in the storage closet just off the lab, but while Bunsen was softly snoring, Beaker found himself wide awake and worried. They'd fussed over the data from the psychokinetic field sensors all day, and it still made no sense. Bunsen would no doubt have another of his bizarre dreams which would inspire a new invention upon the morrow, but Beaker was still aching in places from that chunk of concrete which had fallen on him. _He_ for one was taking this dangerous-energy theory seriously.

Moving quietly so as not to disturb his roommate, Beaker tiptoed out of the lab and padded in his big orange monster-feet slippers through the silent halls to the canteen. No one else was around except a few rats snoring loudly across the green room. Beaker took a carton of milk from the 'fridge, sniff-tested it, decided it was within acceptable limits, and poured a little in a small saucepan, heating it carefully on the rangetop. He leaned on a counter, tapping his fingers against his skinny cheek, and sighed. An energy field which originated quite suddenly in the Muppet Theatre, but which seemed able to move around freely… An energy field which coated the rats like low-level radiation from too much contact with spent nuclear fuel rods… An energy field which spiked weirdly at certain times of the day onstage and on the loading dock…

Beaker sighed again, shaking his head glumly. There was _something_ here which bespoke a pattern. If only he could figure out what the commonality of all these events was… He noticed a scum trying to form on his milk from the heat, and removed it from the burner, careful to shut the range back off. He spooned out the thin skin atop the warm milk, turned around, and realized he'd been so preoccupied with this problem he'd forgot to bring along his cute froggie mug. He gestured at the ceiling with a few quiet meeps, complaining to himself. Honestly! He was becoming as bad as Bunsen; next thing you knew, he'd be subjecting _himself_ to a Muppet Labs invention.

As quietly as possible, hurrying along the dark hallway, Beaker returned to the lab and found his mug after some searching. Bunsen had apparently put a collection of erasers in it. Irritated, Beaker dumped them out, not expecting them to bounce around quite as violently as they did. Several frantic minutes of chasing-down-every-still-boinging-bit-of-pink-rubber-and-stowing-them-in-a-drawer-in-utter-silence later, knowing full well his milk would be cooled off and he'd have to warm it all over again, Beaker sighed and trudged down the dark hallway yet again. He was weary enough; his mind just wouldn't let the problem sit, and the warm milk would be just the ticket.

He skimmed off the milk, warmed it back up gently, poured it in his cute froggie mug, quietly rinsed out the saucepan and left it in the sink with a little dish soap in it, and with a small mugful of milk in hand, tiptoed back into the lab. He cleared a small space on a lab counter to set the mug, very quietly hefted a metal stool over to sit on (freezing momentarily as Bunsen mumbled and turned over in his sleep), and with a deep sigh, sat down at the counter. He touched the mug; still nice and warm, not too hot. Mumbling a few contented meeps, he lifted the mug to his mouth.

The alarm screeched like a cross between a foghorn and a submarine dive signal. Beaker jumped a foot. The milk spilled everywhere. Whirling, crying out in surprise and distress, Beaker checked the psychokinetic field energy monitor readout. The sustained spikes it was busily graphing were way off the scale of anything they'd seen so far. Groaning, Bunsen staggered into the lab. "Beaker! How many times have I told you! _Only_ set off the emergency alarm if there's an actual emergency!"

"Mee mee me meep me _meep!"_

"What?...Goodness," Bunsen said, blinking dazedly, adjusting his spectacles. "Beaker! The psychokinetic field is spiking! Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

Beaker sighed, forlornly looking around at his spilled milk.

The Newsman awoke with a start. He blinked around at the room; it was still dark, although the candle flickered reassuringly in a glass holder nearby. Relaxing somewhat, he told himself it was just a dream, that a horrid rotting thing with endlessly long arms and a scolding voice (he wouldn't let himself think about how familiar the voice had been) wasn't really chasing him. He felt the warm quilt over him, an odd but pleasant sensation of nothing at all between his skin and the sheets, and the softness of the pillow beneath his head. He lay there silent, amazed, recalling every new experience of the night in a nimbus of gratitude close to awe. Had he really…? Had she actually…? He found himself astonished in the certainty that the answer to all was _yes._

No turning back now. He had officially crossed into uncharted waters.

Gina mumbled hazily next to him. "Newsie…?"

"I'm here," he whispered, beginning to turn toward her, but she shifted closer, and her soft, smooth arm wrapped over his midsection. She pulled him close to her, curling up, spooning behind him. She resettled instantly, falling back asleep with a sigh. He lay there a long while, just taking in the new sensation of her touch. Finally, curling up himself to copy her, Newsie closed his eyes once more, conscious of her holding him securely, of the warmth of her bed, of the peace of the whole place. With a deep sigh, he drifted off again, smiling.

It was the first time he'd ever been so profoundly content.


	20. Chapter 20

His nose knew there was coffee before his brain actually shifted into 'awake' gear. Newsie blinked slowly, finding himself standing in the kitchen. He had absolutely no recollection of putting on his boxer shorts or finding a mug, but there he was, empty mug in hand, feet bare on the brick-patterned floor, sniffing deeply. As he tried to focus without his glasses, he heard a giggle behind him. Gina put a hand on his shoulder, and as he turned to see her she kissed him. "So. Kind of the United Nations of shorts, huh?"

Bewildered, he glanced down, realizing the shorts his semiconscious attempt at modesty had made him pull on were the ones with multiple flags patterned all over, a souvenir from the multicultural show he'd participated in decades back. Spike Milligan had given him them when Newsie had insisted that a reporter ought to concern himself with all nations, not just one. He'd thought it an odd gift, but there were many odd things about that particular show, not the least of which had been the mad English comic attacking him onstage during the news. "Uh…long story," he muttered. He watched her go to the counter nearest the stove, where a small carafe of some kind seemed to be the source for the deliciously rich scent filling his nostrils.

Gina held up the French coffee press. "I take it you want a cup?"

"Huh?...oh, sure!" Gladly he held the mug still while she poured, and then joined her at the kitchen table. She sipped from her own mug, smiling at him, watching him practically melt into the coffee, his eyes barely open, holding it under his nose when he wasn't actually sipping it so the fragrance would drift up.

"Organic shade-grown Arabica and Kona mix," she told him.

Newsie simply nodded, completely involved in the coffee. This was miles above the sludge he usually had to settle for. When he felt her hand stroking his cheek, he smiled sleepily at her. She giggled again. "Wow. You are _not_ awake. I wish I had a camera right now."

"Whyzzat?" he mumbled, taking another long, exquisite mouthful, tasting the rich oils the coffee press brought out in the liquid.

"Because, dear Newsman, I doubt you've _ever_ just sat around enjoying coffee in your boxers before."

"Huh?" Newsie blinked at her. What she'd said filtered into his brain. He looked down at himself again. The realization hit him like a certain pig's karate chop. "Wh-why am I sitting here in nothing but shorts?" he stammered, shocked.

Gina gave him a truly evil grin. "Why are you sitting there in anything at _all_ after last night, is my question!"

"Ulp!" He set down the mug, eyes open as wide as they could go under his heavy brows. "Uh…'scuse me!" He hurried back to the bedroom, hearing her hearty laugh behind him. When he returned, the red in his face nicely complementing the brown shades of his closely-wrapped robe, Gina was still snickering. He resumed his seat, found he'd drunk over half his mug, and sheepishly looked up at her through his usual thick lenses. "Um. Is there any more coffee?"

"Uh-huh." She fetched the carafe, refilling his mug and her own. She grinned at him, resettling herself. "Better?"

"I think I need it," he mumbled, trying to drink it faster without burning his tongue.

"Do you eat breakfast normally?"

"Uh…my mother used to make me eat a bowl of plain oatmeal every morning."

"Ooo-kay," Gina said, mildly surprised. "Well, I don't think I have any, but I can certainly get you some…"

"Actually," he said, very quiet and embarrassed, "I…I'd kind of rather not. Ever. Again." He heard silence, and looked up, puzzled. Their eyes met. After a second Gina burst into fresh laughter, and gradually Newsie began to chuckle as well.

"That can be arranged," she promised. "No oatmeal for the journalist!"

"Thank you," he said, relieved. She leaned over to kiss him; he returned it happily.

"So. What would you like?"

"Oh, no, you don't have to –"

"Hey, we both have a long day ahead of us and many calories will be burned. Let me see what's in the 'fridge… Hmm. What say you to my version of cheese toast? I have some apple butter and Canadian bacon for it."

"I'm sure you'll be doing much more strenuous things than I will," Newsie said, picturing her climbing all over that scary lighting grid, hauling around heavy light instruments.

Gina swung the 'fridge door shut with a foot, her hands full of appetizing things, and shot another wicked grin at him. "Oh, you're sure of that, are you?"

It took him a few minutes for her meaning to dawn on him. He flushed bright pink. "Ah…er…"

She broke away from the breakfast preparations to kiss him again. "I like the pink on you. Ever thought about getting a tattoo? Maybe a cute little itsy bitsy pink heart, right next to your–"

"No," he said hurriedly, and she chortled, returning to the counter to finish layering things on slices of bread. He sank down in his chair, deeply embarrassed, sipping the coffee, doing his best to ignore the image flashing through his mind of her tattoos he'd glimpsed, in the dim candlelight, when she'd thrown off the covers at one point. What was wrong with him? He'd never allowed his mind to wander so wantonly! Why, this was shameful; this was terrible; this was…it was…

She bent over to put a baking sheet with the cheese toast into the oven to broil, and he realized with a start she, unlike him, wasn't wearing anything besides a robe. He was only vaguely aware his mouth was hanging open in shock.

This was heaven. That's what it was.

"Kermit? May I have a moment of your time?"

Kermit glanced up briefly from his desk, where his long tongue was licking three envelope flaps closed at the same time. "Sure, Bunsen. What's up?"

"You may not have been aware of this, but a dangerous psychokinetic energy field has been popping up most irregularly and worrisomely in the theatre," Honeydew informed him. Behind the scientist, Beaker stuck a finger in the air with an affirmative meep.

"Psycho-what energy? Dangerous in what way?"

"Psychokinetic…meaning, affecting objects. Have you noticed anything odd recently involving things moving by themselves, or, oh…suddenly materializing or dematerializing?"

Kermit put stamps on the envelopes for the theatre's bills, his face rumpling in a frown. "Bunsen, this isn't like the time you were experimenting with that teleport invention, is it?"

Beaker waved his hands in front of him, swiveling his head _no._ "Mee meep!"

"I assure you, Kermit, the current emergency has nothing at all to do with anything from Muppet Labs!"

"Well, that'd be a first," the frog muttered darkly.

"I have been tracking the energy spikes for several days now, and they seem to be somehow connected to something in the theatre," Bunsen continued. Beaker shot him a look at the words _"I_ have been…", then sighed, irritated. "Please, Kermit, try to think: have you seen anything at all out of the ordinary, especially onstage? My data indicates there was some sort of psychokinetic field incident onstage Sunday afternoon!"

"No, nothing out of the ordinary," Kermit said, quickly running through the show in his head: Gonzo getting stuck in the soda machine, dancing operetta pigs, Fozzie being heckled, the Newsman attacked by rabid roaches, a couple of numbers that actually went well, and a conga line which wound up accidentally kicking out half the footlights. "Nope. Seemed like a typical show."

Overhearing as he took the bills from Kermit to run up to the front office, Scooter said, "Well, Newsie's girlfriend brought us all food. That was kinda out of the ordinary."

"True," Kermit nodded. "Wish someone had thought to bring up a sandwich for _me!"_

"Sorry, boss. I was trying to find the toolbox," Scooter apologized. As he scurried out into the house, the scientists turned away, disappointed.

"At least a pickle would have been nice," Kermit grumbled, putting the account ledger away.

"It seems we shall have to design a more sensitive sensor, in order to pinpoint the source and effects of the field," Bunsen mused. Beaker considered it.

"Mee meep me me mee, mee meepie?"

"Hmmm…" Bunsen thought it over, then patted his compatriot on the arm. "You know, you may just have something there, Beakie! It's worth a try!" With renewed enthusiasm, they hastened down to the lab.

Piggy swooped through the back door, shopping bags dangling from both gloved hands. "Oh, hi, Piggy!" Kermit greeted her. Quickly he fumbled for the small vase of pink and red carnations Scooter had picked up from the florist earlier for him. "Uh, I got you a little something to brighten up your dressing room," he said, offering the flowers.

Piggy stopped, looking at them, then at the frog. "Lemme guess: they were having a sale on _cheap_ flowers?" she huffed.

"Uh, well, uh, no! No, I just thought you might –"

"For your information, _real_ admirers give star performing ladies _orchids!"_ Tossing her snout in the air, she bustled upstairs. The loud slam of her dressing-room door informed him he was still not forgiven.

Kermit sighed, wondering how much she'd just put on his credit card at those fancy little boutiques. At least they looked like large bags. He'd learned that the smaller the bag, the higher the price tag of whatever was in it. Gonzo came offstage from whatever he'd been doing to set up his act tonight, and saw the vase still in Kermit's hand.

"Wow! Carnations? For me? Kermit, you shouldn't have!"

"Uh…you're welcome," Kermit muttered, scrunching up his face.

"You know, for next time, I really prefer the two-colored ones," Gonzo confided. "Maybe red and white, or yellow and purple…"

Kermit waved his arms. "Gonzo! Will you just get out of here?"

"I'm just saying," Gonzo shrugged, taking the flowers and hurrying off.

With a heavy sigh, Kermit looked up at the backstage clock. "Wonderful. Only five o'clock and it's already gonna be a long night…"

Beauregard stopped, pointing at the clock. "Oh, I forgot to reset that for Daylight Savings! Here…" Standing on tiptoe, he adjusted the clock hands, nodded at it in satisfaction, and walked off, mop in hand.

Kermit groaned. _"Six_ o'clock and it's gonna be a long night…six o'clock! Hey! _It's an hour to curtain - where the hey is everybody!"_

It would indeed be a long night.

Beauregard caught the Newsman whistling as he came up the alley. Beau was out back emptying the canteen trash into the theatre dumpster; the Chef's attempt at Cajun-blackened ice cream had not gone well. The janitor heard the familiar tune, and his eyes widened; he whistled along with the whistler briefly, not turning to see who it was. "Hey, that's a good one; I know that! 'Strangeness in the night, expecting pantless…'" he sang. The person whistling stopped abruptly, and a second later the Newsman came up the steps to the back door, seeming very intent on getting inside fast. Beau put out a hand to stop him. "Hey, was that you whistling just now, Newsie?"

"No! No, of course not," Newsie coughed, startled.

"Oh." Beau's face fell. "I guess I must've just heard _me,_ then."

Escaping quickly, Newsie went inside and downstairs. He used the somewhat-reflective air-conditioning drip tray which Beau had hung up in the broom closet as a mirror to check his appearance, ran a comb through his short hair to part it properly off to his right, and straightened his already-straight tie. He paused, staring at himself, trying to identify what he was feeling. The usual nerves, certainly; but there was a high-pitched giddiness behind them, a feeling of…of…he gulped.

 _Invulnerability._ He actually felt confident. Gina had said, when they met for a very late lunch, she wasn't feeling worried about his work tonight. She'd promised to call the theatre if she had a premonition at the last minute, but they'd parted with a kiss that left him staring along the sidewalk for minutes after she'd gone around a corner, and he'd walked on to the Muppet Theatre in a daze. He tried now to shake himself out of it, to focus, to be prepared for a News Flash if one occurred…but, strange though it was to acknowledge in himself, he actually felt _good._

He sat down in the green room, opening _The Backstage Handbook_ at the place he'd marked, gently touched the strings woven and knotted around his wrist, and with a faint smile buried his nose in the pages.

Unfortunately, he didn't get far. Gonzo interrupted him. "So, Rizzo tells me your girlfriend is involved in a production of _'Macbeth,'"_ he said.

Newsie gave him a startled look. "Uh…I thought you weren't supposed to say it aloud?"

"Say what aloud?"

"That play."

"What play?"

"The Scottish Play?"

"Uh, bagpipes, I'm pretty sure," Gonzo mused.

Newsie frowned at him. "No! There's supposedly a curse on the play."

Gonzo grabbed his sleeve, eyes widening. "Your girlfriend's play is _cursed?"_

"Of course not," the Newsman grumbled. "It's a silly superstition!"

"Oh," Gonzo said, confused. "I always thought it was Shakespeare."

"No, no…there's a superstition… Gina told me it's cursed," Newsie tried to explain.

"Why would she curse a superstition?"

Newsie scowled. "She isn't! The _play_ which her theatre is producing is supposedly cursed!"

"That really sounds like an awful lot of cursing," Gonzo offered. "You've told her we do family-friendly shows here, right?"

Giving up, Newsie stalked into the canteen to see if anything vaguely drinkable could be found there; the soda machine was on the fritz again for some reason. The opening theme music sounded upstairs, and Gonzo hurried up to be ready for his act. Tonight he would impress everyone by eating a tire to the orchestra's rendition of "Sing, Sing, Sing." Standing backstage while Kermit welcomed everyone and gave his usual emcee patter, Gonzo greeted Fozzie, who seemed to be pacing a ditch in the floor. "Hiya, Fozzie. Everything okay?"

"Oh, Gonzo, I just don't know what I'm gonna do!" the bear moaned.

"Well, I'd let you help with my act, but tonight's special. I'm eating a tire to the tune of 'Sing, Sing, Sing'! It's kind of a solo piece."

Fozzie looked at him quizzically. "Didn't you do that years ago?"

"No, it was 'Flight of the Bumblebee.' And I never got to finish the tire." Gonzo held up a circle of rubber. "I planned it better this time! I got a bicycle tire instead!"

Fozzie sighed. Kermit introduced Gonzo, who eagerly hurried onstage. From the noises that followed, it sounded like the band, at least, was enjoying the number, if the audience was less than thrilled. Fozzie continued to pace and fret. Kermit noticed, and stopped him. "Fozzie, what's wrong?"

"Oh, Kermit, I was gonna do that great routine I told you about, remember? The one with the purple panda joke? But I lost my cue cards, and now I can't remember the joke!" the bear wailed.

"You forgot a joke about a purple panda?" Kermit wondered, scrunching his face in disbelief.

"Yes! Oh, Kermit, what am I gonna do now?"

"Listen, Fozzie, I'm sure you'll think of something," Kermit promised, then clicked on the backstage intercom. "Jug band! Jug band onstage next!"

To numerous boos and a flourish from the orchestra, Gonzo returned. "Philistines! You'd think public taste would get a little more sophisticated after this many years…"

"Gonzo! Gonzo, do you know any new jokes?" Fozzie demanded.

Gonzo tossed aside the remaining quarter-tire, scratching his feathery head. "New jokes? Uh…no, but I think Newsie was trying one out on me earlier. I didn't get it."

Fozzie stood up straight, dumbfounded. "Newsie? You mean _our_ Newsman? He does jokes now?"

"I think so, but it's hard to tell with him," Gonzo said, shrugging.

"Ohhhhh…now _he_ wants to be funny! Kermit! Where does it _end?"_

Pops and the rest of the jug band strolled past, the mouth-harp player tuning as he went. "Uh, I really don't know, Fozzie. If it's any consolation, I very much doubt the Newsman _intends_ to get laughs," Kermit said.

"He was telling me something about a curse," Gonzo told Fozzie. "It didn't make much sense to me, especially because I started out asking him about his girlfriend's play."

"Why, what does she play?"

"No idea – but the theatre she works at is doing a production of _'Macbeth.'"_

Kermit nodded. "Oh, that's the old 'witches curse' story."

Fozzie gasped, recoiling. "A…a witches' curse?"

"Yeah, supposedly _'Macbeth'_ has a curse on it."

"Oh, Kermiiiiit!" Fozzie cried. "Newsie's girlfriend is in danger? But she's so nice! She brought us pickles!"

"No, Fozzie, no – I'm sure she's not in any danger. That whole 'curse' thing is nothing but an old theatre myth," Kermit assured the distraught bear.

"It's a what?"

"A myth."

"A what?"

Kermit frowned deeply. "Oh, no! I'm not doing that one again!"

Gonzo, curious, asked, "What's the curse about?"

Kermit shook his head. "Well, supposedly, that particular play has a real curse written into it. There's an old superstition that you should never say a line from the play, or even the name of the play, while you're inside a theatre, unless you're actually performing it."

"What happens if you do?" Fozzie asked anxiously.

"Fozzie…nothing. It's a silly old tradition. You know, kind of like the one about performers not whistling onstage."

"You mean like this?" Gonzo queried, immediately whistling "Sing, Sing, Sing."

"Why shouldn't we whistle onstage?" Fozzie asked.

"Well, you see, Fozzie, the first theatre techies over in England were often sailors, and they communicated with one another like they would aboard a ship, by whistling to each other," Kermit explained. "So one whistle might mean, 'raise that fly-line,' and another might mean, 'drop that sandbag here'…"

"Ack!" A heavy sandbag crashed down on top of Gonzo, making Kermit and Fozzie jump. Kermit peered up into the loft over the stage right wing.

"Hey! Knock it off! …I thought we got rid of those sandbags when we switched to a double-hung pulley system?" Kermit wondered.

A pig in a sailor suit with a jaunty cap shrugged at him from above in the loft. "Sorry. Thought you wanted it down there."

"Yeesh," Kermit muttered.

"Can someone please give me a pump up?" Gonzo's muffled voice came from the squashed blue pile on the floor.

"Uh…whaddaya want me to do with all these old sandbags up here?" the pig called down as Fozzie cranked Gonzo's arm, restoring him to a more or less standing position.

"I don't know – just get rid of 'em!" Kermit answered.

"Okay!"

Dozens of full sandbags rained down, burying Gonzo. The bear and frog jerked back in surprise and dismay. "…Ow," came a weak voice from somewhere under the pile.

Fozzie turned to Kermit. "I see what you mean. Curses are silly, but whistling is bad!"

"Eeesh," Kermit shuddered.

The Newsman heard the wire spitting out news copy before Scooter could even reach it. Grabbing the printout, Newsie hurried to the stage, but found his way blocked by an enormous mound of sandbags. Huffing impatiently at them, he reflected that such disorganization would never happen at the Sosilly, judging by what he'd seen. Beau was trying to move them out of the wing, but the bags were so decrepit half of them split open when he tried to pick them up, the sand spilling everywhere. "Newsman, you're on!" Scooter said, earning a frown.

"Is there a way _around_ this?" Newsie demanded. Scooter shook his head sadly.

"'Fraid not. You'll just have to climb over like the rest of us!"

Grumbling to himself, Newsie did his best to make it over the shifting pile without staggering, trying to shake the loose sand off his trouser cuffs as he hurried to his desk. He looked at the bulletin. "And now for a Muppet News Flash! There have been reports of a tornado sighted! People are urged to stay indoors in a secure area! If you are outside, get to safety, especially if you hear a noise like a freight train…" He squinted at the report. "Uh, unless you are actually _on_ a freight train. In that case, you should listen for any noise which sounds like a tornado." Shaking his head, he tossed the report aside, stalked off the set, and only when he was past the sand trap and in the wing did he realize nothing had happened. Nothing. He stopped in mid-step, surprised, and quickly looked all around – especially up. For once, nothing seemed to be bearing down on him.

Relieved, he touched Gina's string bracelet a moment, wondering if his luck had finally changed for the better. As he went downstairs, feeling much lighter of mood, Piggy barreled past. "I thought there'd be at _least_ another minute of them scraping you up! Can't you stick to a routine, loser?" she snapped at him, running for the stage. At a loss for a response, he stared after her a moment. Then he felt a smile creeping over his face. He bit it back, thinking how unprofessional it would be, but as he returned to the green room and his study reading, he almost whistled. Almost.

"And now, we present a musical interlude of wistful wondering, willfully warbled by our very own Miss Piggy!" Kermit told the audience. As he retreated stage right, Dr Honeydew and Beaker opened the stage left door from the tunnel. Janice played a pretty acoustic guitar intro.

"I clooooooose, myyyyyyyy, eyyyyyyyyyes," Piggy sang, suiting deed to words as she threw one arm dramatically over her face, her gauzy champagne-colored peignoir and robe flowing wispily through the air before her. Beaker stared at her, then looked all around the stage. Bunsen held up his new and improved psychokinetic energy field source-manipulator pinpointing sensor array, which looked a lot like a Jiffy-pop popcorn pan with a readout screen from a GPS indicator welded inside.

"It's definitely here, Beaker! Look at those readings! It just spiked again!" Bunsen exclaimed. Piggy, hearing him, paused to glare into the stage left wing, then moved more center stage, singing louder.

"Only for a moment, and the moment's goooooooone…" What the heck were those two geeks doing on stage? What was it with all the geeks doing things they weren't supposed to tonight, anyway? Annoyed, Piggy tried even more emphatic gestures. Her gauzy outfit was blowing around quite a bit. Why was there a fan above her? She coughed; sand was blowing over from stage right. "Alllll…myyyyyyy… dreeeeeeaaams… pass before my eyes…(cough, cough, cough) my eyyyyes…(cough, hack)… _aaaagh! My eyes! Someone get this darned sand out of my eyes!"_ Piggy shrieked.

Bunsen stared in awe; Beaker squealed and tried to make a run for it. The twister touched down right on top of Piggy, yanking her up with a scream and a wild flurry of fluttering fabric. The entire sandpile was sucked into the air. "Oh! Oh, heavens!" Bunsen cried, hanging onto the exit stair railing for dear life. Beaker dove into the tunnel, running as fast as his pattering feet could take him. He could hear the chaos onstage still; it sounded like a dull roar…kind of like a freight train…

The train blared its horn at him, bearing down too fast to escape. Beaker shrieked, going down as the improbable train plowed over him and shot through the understage tunnel.

"Kermit! It's a twister!" Fozzie yelled.

"I can see that!" Kermit yelled back. "Piggy!"

"Auntie Em, Auntie Em!" Gonzo howled, being pulled out of the remainder of the sand. Several chickens zipped past, bawking in terror.

"Kermit! It's that play curse!" Fozzie cried.

"I told you, that's a myth!"

"Is there another myth about how to _stop_ it?"

"I don't remember!"

The phone rang. "You've gotta be kidding me!" Kermit complained, worriedly staring up into the circling winds. Far above the stage, he could see a small white thing swooping around and around, still shrieking loudly. "How is that even possible?" he yelled. "The roof's still on!"

Scooter answered the phone. "Hello?...Oh, hey, Gina. Look, we're kinda busy –" He broke off, listening a moment, then nodded. "Okay, I'll tell him! Thanks!" He rushed over to his boss. "Kermit? Gina says to break the curse, you have to go outside around the building three times counterclockwise, spit, swear, and then someone else has to let you back in!"

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Kermit shouted. "I am not doing all that! Get the Newsman up here! This is _his_ tornado!"

"My _what?"_ Newsie asked, jaw dropping, when Scooter ran downstairs and informed him of the chaos onstage. He backed away, shaking his head. "Oh no! I am _not_ going up there! You guys can deal with this for a change!"

"He says get up there, or you're fired!" Scooter said, Kermit having anticipated this response.

Newsie hesitated. Scooter tried a different tack. "Newsie, please! The twister's got Miss Piggy! If she's hurt, Kermit will never get over it! Please!"

They looked at one another. Swallowing hard, the Newsman gave in, and hurried up the stairs after Scooter, shaking in dread. Downstairs had been calm – relatively, at least – but once at the top of the stairs he could hear an awful sound, a roaring like an oncoming train. He thought of every trailer-park interview he'd ever seen on the Weather Channel, gulped, and ventured into the stage right wing to peer out at the impossible freak of wind. "You! This is _your_ fault!" Kermit shouted at him.

"I only _read_ the news, I don't _cause_ it!" Newsie yelled back over the noise. Audience members were either clinging to their seats or being sucked up into the whirling cone. "What do you expect me to even _do_ about it?"

"Do _something!_ I don't care what!"

"Newsie! Gina said –" Scooter quickly told him what Gina had said for Kermit to do. Newsie gestured at Kermit.

"Well then tell _him_ to do it! I'm not the one going around saying _'Macbeth!'"_ Newsie protested, then blanched. "Oh –" he unleashed a few of the words he'd heard Gina use before, though he wasn't entirely sure of their meanings.

Scooter shoved him toward the rear exit. "Just do it! Get out there!"

Angrily, the Newsman whirled as the back door slammed shut behind him. This was outrageous! He didn't have anything to do with this! If Gina had said the way to stop it was for Kermit to perform this silly countercurse, why was _he_ the one out here? He looked up; there was no sign at all over the theatre that a tornado was raging inside. He shook his head, completely astonished. _None_ of this made any sense! Even less than usual! "Which way is counterclockwise?" he wondered aloud, trying to visualize a clock laid over the theatre. Figuring it out, he ran down into the alley, realizing that to go around the building completely he was going to have to travel a very long route, as other buildings hemmed in the theatre on two sides. He turned at the first cross-alley, heading left, running until he turned left onto the street, turned again, ran in front of the theatre, turned at the intersection, ran until the alley opened up, went down it, nearly turned the wrong way at the cross-alley…

By the time he'd completed three circuits he was panting hard and his sides hurt. He staggered up the rear stairs and pounded on the back door. Scooter opened the door a crack. "Did you do all three laps?"

"Take a wild guess," Newsie huffed weakly.

"Now you have to spit and swear. _Then_ you knock and I let you back in."

"Now hold on just a –" SLAM.

Exhausted, Newsie tried to even work up enough water to spit. He felt disgusted doing so, but clearly he wasn't going to be allowed back in without completing this nonsense. He aimed for the dumpster a few feet from the loading dock. "Hey!" a sharp voice protested. Rizzo's head popped up from the top of the dumpster. "Do you _mind?_ There's some amazing blackened ice cream down h—oh it's _you._ I thought I was done with you!" the rat complained.

It didn't take much imagination for Newsie to swear at that point. "Rat, I _swear_ on the crocheted tombstone cozy of my dear mother, if you say one more word to me in that disrespectful tone, I'll plant mousetraps all over this theatre!"

"What the heck's a tombstone cozy?" Rizzo wondered.

Newsie leaned against the back door a moment, gasping, his legs shaking. He wasn't used to that much exertion. At least, when he was running for his life, it was rarely a sustained run of more than a minute… He gathered a small bit of strength and knocked on the back door. Scooter opened it, eyes wide. "Wow. That was some heavy swearing!"

"Just tell me it's done," Newsie panted, stumbling inside. A long shriek, a thrilled scream, and several falling _baaaaaawwwwwks_ sounded from the stage, followed by crashing sounds.

Scooter surveyed the falling pig, Gonzo, and chickens all the way down. "Yep. That did it!"

"Good," the Newsman managed. He used the stair railing to keep himself from falling down to the green room, found an empty beat-up sofa, and collapsed onto it. He wondered whether getting caught up in the tornado would've been worse as he lay still and tried to get his breath back.

Kermit helped Piggy up. "Piggy! Are you okay?"

"Whoooo-hoo-hoo! What a _ride!"_ Gonzo laughed. The chickens seemed less pleased. The audience were picking themselves up, adjusting clothing, toupees, and jewelry in an angry murmur. The band members crawled out from under the lip of the orchestra pit, anxiously checking their instruments. Bunsen slowly let go of the exit stair railing, panting in fright; the field sensor was beeping furiously.

Miss Piggy attempted to dust off her ruined dress. "What…the heck…was _that?"_

Kermit gulped, though he was glad to see her basically unharmed. "Uh…well…that was the Newsman's tornado."

"What?" she stared at the frog blankly.

"I'm tellin' ya, it was the curse! The witches' curse!" Fozzie was yelling from the wing.

"Goodness, Beaker! Look at these readings! That was definitely a manifestation of the psychokinetic energy field! Have you ever seen such a potent demonstration of the raw power of theoretical dimensional quantum physics?" Excited, Bunsen looked around. "Beaker…?"

In the tunnel, the train from nowhere had apparently gone back there. Beaker lifted his dazed head enough to see that the tunnel was simply an access hallway once more. With a groan, he passed out, his face flopping into the thin layer of sand coating the floor.

In the green room, Newsie was just starting to feel like his heart wasn't going to explode from exertion after all. He felt a tap on his shoulder, and opened weary eyes. Piggy stood next to the sofa, shaking in rage. Before Newsie could so much as utter a _what?,_ he heard the dreaded sound from a pig throat raw with sand: _"Hiiii-yaaa!"_

"Whooof!" he puffed, his legs flopping into the air from the force of her chop on his stomach. Coughing, gasping, he fell to the floor. Piggy tossed her hair back; it fell over her face, but she pretended dignity anyway.

"And if you ever, _ever_ want my advice again, jerk, just stuff it!" she shouted, storming away to her dressing-room.

In a great deal of pain, Newsie lay there, still gasping, as Scooter came over. The young man leaned down, shaking his head. "Maybe next time, you should just let the twister get you," Scooter suggested.

"Uh-huh," Newsie groaned, and fell unconscious.


	21. Chapter 21

At nearly eleven-thirty, feeling much as though she'd been released from indenture, Gina walked out of the lobby of the Sosilly. It had been a very long rehearsal with many overcomplicated discussions between the director and the diva playing Lady Macbeth, which held up the entire thing for minutes at a time. At least she and Scott had finished programming the lighting cues, every instrument seemed to be working fine, and a thorough check hadn't turned up any more risky cables. She felt much better thinking ahead to the quiet dinner at home she'd planned. When she saw the Newsman sitting on the bottom step of the lobby entrance, she slowed. Even from behind she could see the slump of his shoulders. She sat down next to him, smiling sympathetically as he slowly lifted his head to see her. "Bad night?"

Newsie shook his head, and suddenly filled with gratitude for having someone to turn to, simply put his arms around her and leaned in. Gina hugged him in return, and he sighed. _"That_ bad," she murmured, and kissed the top of his head. "Okay."

"There was a tornado in the theatre."

"A tornado? Let me guess…your blonde pig diva went on a tear?"

"Uh…yes. But no. I mean a real tornado."

Gina looked him in the eyes. "Newsie…I'll admit, weird things happen at your theatre. But a tornado? Inside?" He nodded glumly. Her eyes widened. "Oh my gosh, you're serious? What happened? Did it rip off the roof? Was anyone hurt?"

"The roof's fine. The only one hurt was me, I think."

"Newsie!" She held him tight. "What happened?"

He told her the events of the night from his standpoint, although he had no idea how the sandbags had wound up blocking the stage right wing. "When Scooter told me you'd called, and what you'd said, I assumed Kermit should be the one to handle it, because _I_ hadn't said…you know. He insisted I go through that whole ridiculous charade," he took a deep breath, the memory of his run around the building bringing back a stitch in his side, "so…I did. And then apparently Piggy blamed me for the whole thing."

"I had this feeling you guys were discussing the Scottish Play, so I called. No one said anything about a tornado!" She kissed him, concerned. "I'm glad the countercurse worked, but I don't understand what the twister has to do with it."

Newsie shrugged. "I delivered a report about one. But it didn't show up until I'd left the stage, and caught Piggy instead of me." He fingered the string bracelet. "Do you think…do you think maybe your charm kept it away from me?"

She gave him an odd look. "I thought you didn't believe in my little spell."

"Well, no, but –" He realized what he'd just said, and froze, looking up at her worriedly. "Uh, I mean, of _course_ I believe in it! It's just, uhm, I wasn't expecting…er…"

Gina shook her head, giving him a brief smile. "It's okay, Newsie. I knew you were just humoring me." She took his left hand, stroking up his wrist, rubbing the bracelet against his skin. "Do you believe now I made it for your protection?"

He swallowed. "Yes. Yes I do." She smiled, and gave him a kiss.

"Come on, let's go home. I am absolutely ravenous," Gina said, getting to her feet. He followed suit, and they started for the apartment, gently holding hands. Her touch reassured him, and he tried to put the strange events of the night out of his head.

"Can I do anything to relax you?" Newsie asked, seeing she was walking along tiredly as well. "Or…or do you just want to eat first?"

She shot him a grin. "Yes to both. And _then_ we can fix dinner."

"Huh?"

She sighed. "Come on, Innocent Journalist." He looked at her, confused, but she just smiled and gave his hand a squeeze. Slowly it dawned on him what she'd meant, but immediately he thought of monsters. Extremely large ones with big gullets. He couldn't help a shudder. "Newsie? You okay?"

"Uh…uhm…I'm not _that_ innocent," he protested weakly. "I mean, I _have_ heard that term. I'll admit I really don't see the attraction!"

Gina stopped, staring at him. "You don't?"

"Why would that be _enjoyable?_ Gina, I have to tell you, I've been eaten by monsters before, and it's _not_ fun, or…or…uhm…pleasant… Not in the least!" He stared up at her earnestly, blushing a little, but determined to stand on his no-monster policy.

"Oh, man," Gina sighed finally. Newsie gulped, wondering if she was going to dump him for his monsterphobia. She dropped to a crouch, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Newsie. I promise you no monsters will be involved."

"They won't?"

"I maintain a very strict no-monster rule. Especially in the bedroom."

"Oh," he said, relieved. "Oh…good."

"You're priceless. You know that, right?"

He wasn't sure if he was being mocked. Her smile seemed more tolerant than snide, though. She kissed him, and he returned it, deeply relieved. She stood once more, breaking into a large smile. "Come on. We need to get home now. There's something I need to show you."

"Which doesn't involve monsters?"

"Which definitely does not involve monsters. Although it will involve you learning a new use for that adorable nose."

Their voices faded from the street where the Sosilly Theatre lurked in the shadows of taller buildings. "Uh…okay. You know, I'm really happy you like my nose. Er…this won't be one of those silly spoon-hanging tricks like Gonzo does, will it?"

"Newsie?"

"Yes?"

"How old are you?"

"Uh…does that matter?"

A sigh.

"Nope. Come on."

Dr Bunsen Honeydew was up much earlier than his colleague, drafting schematics for the experimental tornadoterminal reverse energy field manifestational generator which he was _positive_ would point the way to the original source of the psychokinetic energy. When Beaker dragged himself out of bed at the very late hour of seven a.m., Bunsen scolded him. "Beaker, you laggard! Discovery never comes to the late sleeper! _I_ have been up with the birds, working on this plan for a generator which will reverse-engineer the transdimensional wind event of yesterday evening."

Beaker blinked at him. He badly wanted a cup of orange juice. What was all this?

Bunsen beckoned him over to the lab table, where he'd already begun assembling components for the generator. "Look! See, with this we shall recreate the wind event in a controlled environment – namely, the lab – and study it, and we ought to be able to trace it back to its source thusly!" He beamed at Beaker.

Beaker came closer, looking over the schematics, wondering how Bunsen had made a blueprint so quickly. He moved a finger over it, waking up even as he realized what his fellow scientist intended. "Mee me, me meep me mee…" he murmured quietly, following the lines on the paper which showed a powerful nuclear accelerator fueling the transdimensional portal reaction by which Bunsen hoped to draw the same tornado into the lab. Beaker's head jerked up. "Me mee mee _mee?"_

"Yes! Isn't it wonderful, Beakie? We shall be the first to actually manifest and harness a force of nature created by a psychokinetic energy field! Aren't you excited?" Bunsen fetched a few gaskets and a rubber hose from the storage cupboards. When he turned around, there was no sign of his assistant. "…Beaker?"

"So you got all that, Beauregard?" Kermit asked.

"Oh, yes!" Beau nodded. He looked at the list of carpentry supplies his boss had written to remind him, in case he forgot what was needed to fix the busted floorboards onstage caused by falling Muppets yesterday. He frowned at it. "Does that say _slian?"_

Kermit quickly turned the paper right-side up. "Nails! It says nails! You know how to fix a floor, don't you?"

"Oh, sure, sure!" Sighing, Kermit began to turn away, but Beau touched his shoulder. "Uh, those are some long boards, though. For proper safety I should have someone come with me to help carry them!"

"Beau, I really can't get anyone to come with you. Hardly anybody is even here, and by the time everyone shows up tonight, that floor already needs to be fixed!" Kermit argued.

"Ah- _ehm,"_ came a high voice behind them. They turned to see Beaker looking at them. He patted the paper Beau held, then indicated himself. "Me meep me mee!"

"Oh, you want to help? Why thank you, Beakie!" Beau said, delighted. "We're a good carpentry team, huh? Oh, this'll be fun!"

"Beaker, are you sure Dr Honeydew doesn't need you for anything?" Kermit wondered.

Beaker rapidly swiveled his head _no._ "Meep-mee!"

"Oh, great, great!" Beau said, patting Beaker's arm. "Come on! I'll go get the truck keys." Beaker hurried along with him.

Sighing, Kermit returned to his take-out breakfast, tired but resigned to being here all day to make sure the job was completed. Beau was really the only one who knew carpentry, and Kermit wasn't sure the janitor was actually on speaking terms with the skill. This was going to be a very long day… And then there was the matter of Piggy. It had taken one very expensive delivered dinner and gallons of champagne bubble bath before she'd forgiven him for the tornado, and it wasn't even his fault! Frustrated, Kermit wondered how the hey the Newsman had avoided the disaster when clearly his report had caused it. It was like the time things kept falling on everyone else instead of just the unlucky newscaster. He slupped his mango-bug-protein shake and took a bite of his moth-butter croissant sandwich, chewing morosely.

Bunsen popped up suddenly at his side, making Kermit jump and almost spill his shake. "Gahh! Bunsen! How many times have I told you guys not to _do_ that!"

"Pardon me, Kermit, but have you seen Beaker? He was supposed to be assisting me in building a manifestational generator today to determine the source of the tornado last night by recreating it in the lab."

Kermit understood why Beaker had made himself scarce. "Uh, no; nope, haven't seen him."

"Hmm. Well, I'll go ahead and get started on it. I'm sure he's around here somewhere," Bunsen mused, trotting off.

"I'm sure he is," Kermit replied. Then he started, dropping his croissant. "Recreating _what?_ _Bunsen!"_ He hurried after the dangerous scientist.

"Why don't you skip the jacket today? It's nice and warm out," Gina suggested.

Newsie stopped, one arm through a sleeve, and blinked at her in surprise. "Not…not wear my sportscoat?"

"Crazy idea, huh?"

"What…what about my tie? It'll look strange without the coat."

"Why not skip the tie too?"

He gulped at her. "Out in _public?"_

"Why not?" She stepped closer to him, fondling his hair. "New things can be fun…don't you agree?" She leaned over, kissing his nose, and he turned a deep shade of beet.

"Uhm."

Gina giggled at him. "Come on. Let's be _scandalous."_

"What…what if Scribbler sees us?" Newsie couldn't imagine going out without his coat and tie. It would be practically indecent!

"You let _me_ worry about Scribbler." She grinned at him. "Did I tell you I can dead-lift eighty pounds?"

That sounded ominous to Newsie. Gina undid his tie, tossing it over at the bed; he tracked it nervously. The coat followed it. He drew his arms over his chest, feeling very exposed in mere shirtsleeves. "Are you sure? I mean, I hate it when people laugh at me…"

"Newsie. It is a lovely spring day. We will be out enjoying it all day. No one is going to laugh at you, I promise," Gina said, and knelt to give him a very involved kiss. When she broke away finally, he stared in breathless wonder at her. "Trust me?"

Consciously shutting his mouth, he nodded at her. "Okay. Maybe next payday we can get you some different shirts. I think you'd look very stylish in a pink-pinstripe Oxford." He tried to envision that. Impossible. She rose and twirled in front of him. "What do you think of this?"

"You look incredible," he said honestly. The dress was sleeveless, low-cut in the back with only a halter keeping it over her neck, gathered at the waist, and covered all over with a multitude of pink and red printed roses on the bright white cloth. It fell in deeply-cut scallops around her calves, giving him a fantastic view of her trim legs. She'd paired simple white-strap sandals with it. "You look like spring bursting free of winter," he said, and she stopped, throwing him a puzzled look. He gulped, embarrassed. "That was silly, wasn't it?"

"No," she said softly, coming to him again. "No, it wasn't silly at all. Thank you."

"I don't know where that came from," he admitted.

She only smiled at him, stroking his cheek with one finger. Abruptly she bounced toward the front door. "Come on! Spring calls!"

Newsie hurried after her, wondering at himself. He'd never been one for a poetic turn of thought. Whatever the cause, he decided, Gina approved, and that was good enough for him. Still anxious about going out half-dressed in only shoes, pants, and shirt, he kept close by her going down through the building and out onto the street. They'd agreed to spend the day sightseeing together. Newsie had lived in the city all his life and had never really taken advantage of the museums, parks, or any of the other attractions it offered; between school and work and taking care of his mother, there hadn't been much time for anything else. As he walked along, hand in hand with this amazing, vibrant young woman who was teaching him so many…interesting things (he blushed even thinking that much), he began to feel lighter of step, lighter of heart.

Liberated. That was the word. He felt amazingly liberated.

She noticed him smiling at her, and paused, smiling uncertainly back. "What?"

"Nothing…I…I think…" Some other part of his mind screamed at him, _What the heck are you saying? Shut up shut up!_ He swallowed, and changed the words he'd nearly, foolishly, spoken aloud. "This is really a nice day. You're right."

Gina beamed at him. "Isn't it? Where should we go first? Breakfast or the park?"

He felt daring. "How about both?"

She laughed, giving his nose a brief kiss. "Now you're talking! Hey, I know this great little place a few blocks over. It's like a retro general store, with a soda counter and everything, and there's a park nearby. The whole neighborhood is older but it's been sort of gentrified, and it's quiet and out-of-the-way. We could pick up smoothies and go sit in the park, if you like."

"Sounds great," he agreed. He tried to match her happy pace; she strode along so full of energy. He marveled that she had any, after last night… Ashamed of such thoughts, he hoped no one was staring at him. He could feel heat rising from his collar all the way up his cheeks.

A block along, she said, "Hey, Newsie?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." He looked up, surprised. "I haven't felt this happy in years. Thank you for moving in. Thank you for, well…being you." She smiled, almost shyly, and he knew there was no yellow left in his skin right then. He could feel it. Flushed all over.

"Er…I…I make you happy?"

"Yes. You do."

He could've walked _thirty_ blocks. Heck, he could have _danced_ them.

"Meep me mee me meep?" Beaker asked, looking uncertainly at the store awning as Beauregard made sure he'd turned off everything and set the parking brake on the truck.

Beau followed Beaker's gaze. "Oh, I always come here! These are old friends of Kermit's. He gets a discount here, and you know, saving money is always a good thing," Beau explained. They climbed down from the cab of the tottering old pickup.

Beaker wasn't sure the small general store would have everything on Kermit's list, but he followed after Beau anyway. At least this was better than going along with Bunsen's crackpot generator idea. Beaker glanced up into the perfect blue sky, relieved. No chance of a tornado in a spring sky that lovely! With a sigh, he stepped inside after Beau. The bell above the door jingled.

The purple-skinned, formally-dressed gentleman behind the counter was chortling to himself: "Fifty- _eight_ crispy chocolate bars! Fifty- _nine_ crispy chocolate bars! Ah-ah-ah!" Hearing the bell, he turned and smiled toothily as Beau approached the counter. "Good morning! Welcome! What can I count out for you today?"

"Uh, hello. Is Alan here?" Beau asked. Beaker looked around, noting in happy surprise the store actually carried the violet honey crumble bars he liked. He pulled a crumpled handful of bills and small change from a coat pocket, seeing if he had enough to buy one.

"I'm so sorry! Alan and the rest of the employees are all out at a small business association meeting! But I can help you with whatever you need," the purple gent said in a somehow-pleasant Lugosi accent.

"Right! Okay," Beau said, and spread Kermit's list out on the counter. "We're from the Muppet Theatre. We need to get these things to fix a hole in the floor. Do you have them?"

"Let me see… _one_ tub of wood filler…" The gent trotted over to a shelf with a few hardware items. "Yes! Yes we do! _One! One_ tub of wood filler! Ah-ah-ah!"

"Oh, good," Beau nodded. Beaker stared from him to the odd gent.

"Me mee meep?"

"He says they got 'em!" Beau told Beaker as the caped man looked over the shelves for the other items. "Isn't that great? We'll have this all wrapped up in no time!"

 _"_ _One! One_ pack of sandpaper, number three grit! Wait…do we also have number one and two grit? Let me see…"

Beaker shrugged, looking around a little more. He saw a small rack of comic books by a stand of magazines, and gently riffled through the titles. He hadn't seen a copy of the latest issue of _SuperGrover Adventures!_ yet this month.

"Here we are! _One_ pack of number _one_ grit sandpaper; _two_ packs of number _two_ grit, and _three_ packs of number _three_ grit!"

"Uh…okay," Beau said, squinting at the list. "Uh, Beakie? Does this say we need all those?"

Beaker came back to the counter, looked at the supply list, and shook his head. "Huh-uhh!"

Beau turned back to the busy clerk. "Uh, excuse me, sir? We only need one pack of the number three grit, I think."

"But _three_ packs of the number three would sound so much better, don't you think?" the clerk asked, smiling. "I just _love_ it when they match like that!"

"Uh…okay," Beau agreed, confused. Beaker shook his head, sighing.

"And you will need a box of twopenny nails…oh, I'm so sorry. We do not have any boxes of nails right now! _Zero –_ zero boxes!"

"Oh." Beau noticed an open bin of nails below the other hardware supplies. "Well…could we just get some of the nails from that bin, then? Maybe you could put them in a little box? Or a bag – a bag would be okay, right, Beakie?"

"Muh-huh," Beaker offered, nodding, and Beau cheered up visibly to have his idea seconded.

"Certainly! What a splendid idea! But how _many_ nails do you need?"

"Oh, gee," Beau scratched his head, and looked at Beaker. "How many nails do we need?"

Beaker was no carpenter. He shrugged, holding his hands up briefly. "Meep-me."

"Hmmm." Beauregard frowned deeply, thinking. "Well, we'll need at least three in each end of each board…uh…and we need…uh…six boards…uh…eleventy-three?" he guessed.

The clerk touched his arm, smiling. "I think I see your problem! You do not wish to get more nails than you actually need?"

"Oh, no, we can always use more nails," Beau said, relieved. This nice man was going to figure it out for them. "Gosh, I sure wish Kermit had been more specific about that!"

"Well, my friend, let us think. What if I counted out a few more than you think you need, just to make sure you have enough?"

"That's a _great_ idea!" Beau said, eyes widening.

Beaker looked from one of them to the other. How had this become such an involved errand? He pointed to the last item on the list. "Meep me mee, mee?"

"Oh, right, right! Do you carry lumber?"

"I am afraid we do not, my friend. This is not really a home improvement store. Oh, how I wish that was the case! Just think of all the aisles and aisles of things I could count!" Seeing Beau's fallen expression, he patted the janitor on the shoulder. "Do not fret. You are friends of Kermit's, yes? I am always willing to do whatever I can for any friend of our old froggy friend. So, although I cannot help you with the boards, I can and will count out… _fifty_ nails for you!"

"Gee, thanks!" Beau said, relieved.

The clerk found a suitable paper sack, and began dropping twopenny nails into it one at a time. _"One! One_ twopenny nail, ah-ah-ah! _Two! Two_ twopenny nails…"

Beaker sighed, and went to browse the drink cooler. Six or eight minutes later, he had examined all the coolers, every magazine on the stand, the shelves of groceries, and was moving on to the menu board above the small lunch-counter area, when he heard Beau exclaim, "Hey, wait! That one was a screw! I think you have some drywall screws mixed in with your nails, mister!"

"Why," the clerk said, checking the bag, "you are correct! I am so sorry! I was having so much fun counting I did not notice the different ones! Here, let me start over. I will be more careful this time!" he promised, dumping the entire bagful back into the nail bin. Beaker's eyes widened as the counting started all over from the beginning.

He looked at his watch, meeping softly in frustration, before he remembered he wasn't all that keen to get back to the theatre anyway. Sighing, he sat down at the luncheon counter. The door-bell _ting'd_.

"It used to be even more old-timey than this, but I like that they kept a lunch-counter," Gina said. "They make great smoothies here. What's your favorite fruit?"

"Blueberry. Well, sort of. They're very high in antioxidants," Newsie replied, looking around the interior of the store curiously.

Gina laughed. "You're allowed to live a little, you know. Wanna try something more exotic? They usually have pineapple and papaya on hand."

Beaker started, recognizing his Muppet Theatre colleague. "Mee meep!"

"Uh…hi," Newsie said, taken aback at a familiar face, though he didn't immediately recall the name. "You're Dr Honeydew's assistant, right?"

"Meep-mur," Beaker nodded.

"Friend of yours?" Gina asked.

"Uh…a colleague. He works at Muppet Labs."

"Oh…right! I've seen you onstage a few times," Gina said, shaking Beaker's hand. Beaker stared at her slender fingers, then up into her smiling face, his mouth falling open. "Beaker! I remember. Wow. Bad stuff seems to happen to you almost as much as Newsie."

Beaker shrugged, pleased. "Meep mo, mee mee me meep; meep mee."

"We came for breakfast smoothies," Gina explained, settling onto a stool. The Newsman climbed onto one next to her. "Are you picking up some lab stuff or something?"

Newsie noticed the counting drama still going on over in the hardware section, surprised to recognize not only Beauregard but the Count von Count. "What's he doing here?" Newsie wondered aloud. He watched the Count putting nails one at a time into a bag, obviously in rapture at the growing number, and Beau staring intently at the whole process, his eyes and one pointing finger following each nail on its short trip from bin to bag.

"Looks fairly involved," Gina commented.

"Mee," Beaker sighed agreement, leaning one elbow on the lunch-counter.

"Maybe we should try somewhere else?" Newsie suggested.

"When all else fails, try asking nicely," Gina murmured to him with a grin, then spoke up. "Um, excuse me? I'm sorry for interrupting, but do you know how to make smoothies?"

"Thirty-seven…hmm?" The Count looked up, then held up a finger to the puzzled Beau. "I am so sorry. Let me take care of these customers quickly." As Beau pointed confusedly from the bag to the bin, trying to remember where the Count had left off, the dapper gent came over to his waiting customers. "Yes? What may I count for you?"

"Uh…smoothies. I'd like a papaya-coconut one to go, please," Gina said, smiling.

"But of course! _One_ papaya-coconut smoothie coming right up!" Swiftly the Count threw on a white apron and busied himself with the blender.

This was supremely strange. What were all these Muppets doing at a small store he'd never heard of before, but Gina frequented? Puzzled, Newsie spoke up as the Count returned with a tall styrofoam cup for Gina. "Excuse me, aren't you the Count von Count?"

"Yes! Yes, I am! Delighted to meet you!" He smiled broadly, and Newsie reminded himself nervously that the Count wasn't _that_ kind of Transylvanian. The Count kissed the back of Gina's hand gallantly. "A pleasure, I am sure!"

Gina glanced from him to Newsie and back. "Uh…hello. Are you from central Europe, by any chance?"

"Why, yes! How did you know?"

"I'm part Gypsy. Gina Broucek…nice to meet you, ah, Count."

"How wonderful! Two Old World descendants, meeting right here! Two! Ah, what a small world it is after all!"

"Newsie? Are you going to order?" Gina asked, clearly trying not to laugh aloud.

"Uh…" Flustered, he surrendered to her judgment. "I'll take another of what she's having, please."

Beaker thought that sounded even nicer than a violet crumble. "Mee mee meep mee, mee?" he asked, raising a finger in accord.

"How wonderful! _Three_ papaya-coconut smoothies! Oh, I am so glad I was able to help at the store today!" He paused, looking quizzically at Newsie. "I am so sorry, my friend; you seem familiar, but I do not recall your name."

"Newsman," he replied, a little affronted. "I was at the All-Star games."

"Oh, forgive me! Yes, those were wonderful! Which team did you play for?"

Taken aback, Newsie was about to snap that he'd been one of the commentators, but Beaker tugged at his shirtsleeve. "Mee mee? _Mee_ me mee," the carrot-haired scientist said apologetically, indicating Newsie's plain shirt.

"What?"

"I think he's talking about your clothes," Gina offered.

Newsie flushed. "I _told_ you going without my coat and tie was a bad idea!"

Gina sighed. Beaker gestured between the two of them. "Mee mee meep mee?"

"Are we together?" Gina asked. Beaker nodded. Gina smiled at Newsie, who was still frowning. He'd co-cast those games with Kazagger for thirteen days! He'd been on the field at the finish line when both Beaker and the Count had completed the cross-country cycling event! How could anyone not -

Gina leaned over and gave Newsie a deep kiss, startling him. After a second he gave in to it, her lips too soft to resist. She stroked a hand through his hair, and all his irritation dissolved; he kissed her back without reserve.

"Meee," Beaker gasped, astounded.

"Here we are! Two – _two_ more papaya-coconut smoothies, bringing us up to _three!"_ the Count said joyfully, setting the cups down in front of them. Then he noticed the kiss. "Oh, goodness me!" He turned more purple. "Why, that is some very strange addition – _one_ short yellow person plus _one_ tall pretty lady equals _one_ amazing kiss!"

Beaker stared. The Count, turning away politely, saw a very confused Beauregard looking at the bag of nails, counting over and over on his fingers and scratching his head. "Oh, I am so sorry! I almost forgot! Now, where was I?"

"Uh…twenty…uh…thirty-thirteen…uh…" Beau gave the Count a helpless look. "I forgot."

"Well, then I shall have to count them…all over again! Ah-ah-ah!"

Beaker sighed. Beau frowned, then brightened. "Right!"

A small rumbling sound came from the lunch-counter. Beaker heard it, looking around nervously. Gina released Newsie, and they stared happily at one another. "Park?" she asked gently.

"Park…? Oh. Sure," he replied dazedly. Gina laid six dollars on the counter for the smoothies, and shot a smile at Beaker as she left, Newsie at her side.

"Nice meeting you," Gina said. Beaker gave her a timid wave, then looked around as he heard the odd noise again. It sounded almost like…no, couldn't be. A tremor? Here?

Gina took Newsie's hand again as they strolled down the street, sipping their drinks. "See? Worth a walk, yeah?"

"It's good," he responded, surprised. He wouldn't have thought he'd like something as exotic as papaya. Come to think of it, he wasn't entirely sure what a papaya was. "Gina, I'm…I'm sorry I snapped back there."

"It's okay." She swung his hand in hers lightly. "You're not a big fan of change, I take it."

"I…no." He looked anxiously up at her. "Is that bad?"

"Am I making you feel a little rattled, with so much change all at once?"

He considered it silently as they walked along the street, past brownstones and some children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. "Maybe a little," he admitted.

"Well, you know what the best remedy for new things is?"

"What?"

She grinned at him. "Keep doing 'em until they're not new anymore."

"Oh," he said, blushing.

"Is that a plan you can live with?"

He gulped. "Yes."

"Good." She smiled at him; relaxing somewhat, he smiled back.

Back in the general store, the Count was so absorbed in his nail-counting that he didn't seem to notice the objects on the shelves shaking. Beaker looked around, growing frightened, as a stack of cans on a crate by the groceries trembled. Suddenly the stack toppled violently; Beaker hopped off his stool, backing away, as one of the cans rolled hard across the floor to hit the stool Gina had been sitting on moments ago. The stool rocked back, teetered, then fell forward against the lunch-counter. "Meep!" Beaker cried, reaching for his smoothie a second too late; it wobbled as the whole counter shook, and then the cup fell backwards onto the food preparation area just below the serving counter. The impact popped open the lid of the smoothie, and frosty papaya-coconut goodness _splopped_ out, directly onto the motor part of the still-plugged-in blender. _"Me-meep!"_

"Hang on, Beaker, we're still counting," Beau said, not taking his eyes off the nails.

"Sixteen! _Sixteen_ twopenny nails…"

Sparks flew up from the blender base. Beaker cringed back. The sparks spattered a napkin dispenser. The napkins caught on fire. _"Meeep!"_ Beaker looked around frantically, then saw a pitcher of water just below the serving-counter. He grabbed for it, his elbow knocking the flaming napkin dispenser into a small trash can beside the counter. Surprised, he jerked to one side as the papers inside it and other trash _fooshed_ into even larger flames, and the pitcher now in his hand went sideways, all the water spilling over the floor. "Mee mee, mee mee meep! Mee!"

"Beaker, just a minute!" Beau said, annoyed. Now he'd lost count again. At least the clerk seemed to have things under control.

"Twenty! Ah-ah-ah! _Twenty_ shiny nails! Twenty- _one…"_

Beaker ran this way and that, looking for a fire extinguisher. He saw one, grabbed it, pointed it at the fire and yanked the pin out. This one was quite a bit larger than the one he'd used in the lab…and much more powerful. He screamed as the force of the pressurized canister threw him around the room, spraying foam retardant all over the lunch-counter, the grocery section, and two of the glass doors to the cooler cases. _"Mee –mee—meeeeeep!"_ He let go of the extinguisher only when it slammed his back against another cooler; he sank to the floor, stunned. The extinguisher continued to spurt all over, dancing across the floor like a wild bull at a rodeo. Beaker shook himself out of his daze in time to see the crazed thing shooting backwards directly at his head. _"Meeeeee!"_

He ducked; the extinguisher crashed through the glass door behind him, fizzling out. Beaker froze, but when the thing seemed dead finally, he sighed, sitting up.

Then approximately eleventy-three heavy bags of crushed ice toppled out of the cooler and onto his head. The noise distracted the Count, who looked up from the nails. Beau's eyes went wide; then he frowned, scolding: "Beaker! You're embarrassing me!" Beaker blinked at him, head wavering, eyes unfocused. "I bring you along to Kermit's old neighborhood to help me, and you just make a mess of the store!" Beau complained, surveying the spilled water, smoldering waste can, sparking blender, bubbling foam trail, scattered cans, and dripping smoothie cup. "Mister clerk, I am _so_ sorry! Do you have a mop?"

"I think so," the Count said, surprised at the extent of the mess. He looked behind the main counter, and found the cleaning supplies. "One, two, three, four – why, we have _four_ marvelous mops!"

Beaker whimpered, starting to freeze. He didn't understand how a tremor could have hit just that one building. He looked at the overturned stool, thinking what an odd coincidence it was that the Newsman had been here, of all places, and right before… "Mee! Mee meep!" he cried, suddenly realizing he'd been missing a connection all along. He struggled to push off the pile of ice bags, shivering, intent on warning Beau. "Mee mee me meep mee mee…"

One final bag of ice fell on his head. Eyes rolling up, Beaker fainted.

Shaking his head, Beauregard wielded the store's mop expertly, going after the slippery water first. "Spilling water on the floor! That's dangerous; someone could get hurt," he grumbled.

The Count turned back to the nails. "Oh, dear…I forgot what number I was on!" He shook his head, then dumped the bag back into the bin. "Well, perhaps the _fourth_ time will be the charm! Ah-ah-ah! One! _One_ twopenny nail…"

Around the corner in a small park, Gina had convinced Newsie to sit next to her on a swingset. He watched her tucking her legs up and swinging higher and higher, still clutching her smoothie, laughing. "Come on! I bet I can go higher than you!" she challenged.

Grinning back at her, he kicked against the ground, and within a few swings could almost match her. She giggled. He felt his heart lift, soaring with each swoop, and gave in to a laugh as well. He couldn't recall the last time anyone had wanted to play with him so joyously…well, ever, really. Her dress revealed more of her legs every time she swung forward, and he watched her delightedly, feeling the wind they kicked up blowing his hair around, hearing it rush past him. He felt young.

It sounded nothing at all like a freight train.


	22. Chapter 22

Beauregard insisted he didn't need any help hammering down the newly-cut boards to patch the hole in the stage floor, and to Kermit's queries about why the trip had taken so long, he only said, "You know, Kermit, you just can't take some people out in public!" Beaker, of course, was no more helpful, having hurried down to the lab as soon as the truck was parked by the loading dock in the alley. Seeing Pepe wandering through the green room, Kermit put him to work sanding the boards before and after each was nailed into place, to make the new work fit in as smoothly with the existing boards as possible. Repeated checks on their progress ensured the floor was repaired and swept clean of sawdust and any stray nails before the night's performers checked in.

 _Oh, good,_ Kermit thought with relief as Beau finished sweeping the stage, and a grumbling King Prawn lugged a bag with the remaining nails off to the tool storage closet. _Hopefully that's the last of the mishaps…for this week, at least._

Beaker, despite the shivers still going through him from having been buried in bags of ice, had hurried downstairs as soon as they returned to the theatre. All his protests to Beau on the ride to the nearest lumberyard and then back home had fallen on uncomprehending ears; instead he'd had to endure a lecture on politeness and not making a mess from the usually more kindhearted janitor. He hadn't even been able to buy a violet crumble bar, and the smoothie was a loss. However, he told himself determinedly, none of that mattered next to what he'd discovered. He found Honeydew tinkering with a matter-transference relay switch on his newly built psychokinetic field generator. Beaker burst into the lab, waving his hands. "Mee-meep! Mee mee mee, me mee, mee me _mee_ me mee…"

"Beaker! Where have you _been?"_ Bunsen scolded. "I've had to build our experimental device without you! I really could've used your help lowering the reality differential charger into the mass spectroponomic array; I'm not entirely sure the gaskets are tight enough!"

Frustrated, Beaker tried again. "Me meep mee _Mewsmeep!"_

"What?" Bunsen stopped trying to screw a hubcap on the side of the generator. "The Newsman? What do you mean?"

Impatiently, Beaker told his fellow scientist everything that had happened at the store, though he skipped much of the interaction between Beau and the seemingly OCD clerk. Bunsen shook his head. "Beaker, you know very well this city is near a fault line! Little tremors go undetected by the general public all the time!"

Beaker argued his point, reminding Bunsen the tornado had swirled into existence the previous night immediately after the News Flash. "Well, did he say anything about an earth tremor while he was in the shop?" Bunsen asked.

"Mee…me mee meep mee meep meep," Beaker said, swiveling his tall head, but then spread his hands and sighed. "Meep meep."

"Hmmm." Honeydew put a hand to his mouth, lost in thought a long moment. Beaker nervously tapped the counter, and three loose screws fell off the hubcap array. "Beaker! Tsk, tsk." Sighing, Bunsen set the screws carefully aside. "Well, I must say, this is certainly a startling theory, but we'll need more proof than the energy spike which preceded the twister. That may have been a coincidence; after all, the Newsman does seem to have a streak of, er, extraordinary bad luck most of the time."

"Mee meep mee me?"

"Well, if all he was doing is sitting in the store –"

"Meep mee," Beaker corrected. He glanced around to see if anyone was listening in, then whispered to Bunsen, "Mee meep _mippy-mippy_ meep meep!"

"Oh, my!" Bunsen looked shocked. He waggled a shaming finger at Beaker. "And you watched? That's _very_ rude, Beakie!"

"Mee," Beaker shrugged, blushing. "Mee mee meep mee me mee?"

"Hmm," Bunsen said again, coming around the lab counter to type some formulae into an ancient, upright IBM 286 which he'd made his own modifications to over the years. "Well, modern advances in genetics have led to an increased focus on so-called indicator genes; little bits of DNA which seem inert or dormant until some environmental trigger switches them on. They then influence the regular DNA, and can cause all sorts of physiological malfunctions…"

Beaker sighed, raising his hands to the ceiling. He _knew_ all this! Bunsen didn't notice his impatience, continuing to feed data into the program. "Now…let us presume from past observance that our Newsman likely has the _Muppeti reporterus disastrii manifestationalii_ gene. Normally this gene causes a preponderance of side effects ranging from attracting mutated furniture to exerting an almost magnetic draw upon any falling objects in the vicinity…however, if there is _also_ an indicator gene, dormant up until now, which has suddenly been turned on, I surmise it _may_ be possible for his extant condition to actually spread its influence into his surroundings!" He pressed down a key with a triumphant _tack_ of a forefinger, and looked at Beaker. On the black monitor, a green spiral of DNA shivered, broke apart, and suddenly turned into miniature piranha-like creatures, spreading out and eating the rest of the formulae typed on the screen. Beaker looked from Bunsen's smug smile to the digital piranha things now spreading out of the monitor, eating the edges of it. Two dropped onto the keyboard, immediately swallowing the backspace and number 6 keys.

"Meep meep!" Beaker exclaimed, gesturing at it.

"Oh, you've seen the Bunsonian Deoxyribonucleic Discombobulator Equation before, Beaker! The idea isn't new; we've just never thought to apply it to the News…er…oh, dear!" He finally saw the digital critterlings devouring the rest of the monitor and swarming over the keyboard and the bulky hard drive. "Oh! Oh! Quick, Beaker! I need a flash drive! I hadn't saved my diary from last night!"

Shrieking as the things skittered across the desk at him, Beaker fled the room, leaving Bunsen thwapping at them with a stained rag. "Shoo! Shoo! Get away! Aaaaahhh!"

The afternoon had ended too soon, and at five forty-five they stood on the loading dock behind the Muppet Theatre, arms around one another, saying a lengthy goodbye before each went to work for the evening. Gina had given him the spare key to the apartment, insisting that when the Muppet Show was done for the night, the Newsman should head home. "I honestly don't know how late I'll be," she told him. "It's the first full dress rehearsal tonight, which is usually panic time for everybody. Scott's pretty good about having all his stuff done on time, but if the director wants any changes made I may have to stay after and program them into the light board."

"I could come by and wait for you," Newsie offered.

Gina leaned over, eye to eye with him, showing a suggestive grin. "Or you could have dinner and a bubble bath waiting for me when I get home…preferably with you already in it."

Newsie gulped, blushing. "Wouldn't that, er, be a little, um, crowded?"

"You're an intelligent man. Figure out a way for us both to fit in the tub." She grinned as his blush deepened, the logistical possibilities going through his mind. She kissed him. "I'll call right before I leave the theatre so you know I'm on my way. Take some time to settle in, put your feet up, whatever. Okay?"

Newsie nodded, too flustered by the images still swimming through his head to offer any coherent speech. Gina bestowed another soft kiss. "Have a good show. Break a leg."

"What? Why would you say that?" Newsie asked, dismayed.

"Uh…old theatre saying? You never wish a performer good luck?"

"I'm not an actor," he pointed out. "I'm a journalist."

"Oh…right…um…break a newscast?"

They stared at one another. This time Gina was the one looking hopeful. After a moment they both began snickering. Newsie was amazed at how easily she brought out a lighter mood in him. He stretched up to kiss her again. "Thank you. You, uh…you have a good night as well. What do techies break?"

She grinned. "Nothing, if we can help it! Especially not with Stingy Starkey producing. Hey, how many producers does it take to change a light bulb?"

"I have no idea," Newsie said, confused. "I didn't know producers bothered with details like that. Our old news producer never did…"

"Newsie, it's a joke. How many?"

"Oh…I don't know," he said.

"'What's wrong with the old one?'" Gina said, looking stern.

Newsie laughed dutifully. Gina sighed, shaking her head. She kissed his nose. "Think about it, okay? I hope your night goes smoothly. I'll see you later." She gave him a small wave as she straightened up and turned to go. "Remember: I'm trusting you with dinner! And my kitchen!" Newsie gulped, but waved back. Gina jumped down the back steps and walked quickly along the alley, pausing once more at the turn to wave again before she was out of sight. Newsie went backstage, briefly pausing to let Scooter know he was there before he went down to his dressing-room. He saw Fozzie at the dining counter, and realized the bear probably wouldn't mock him as much as the others.

"Excuse me, Fozzie," Newsie said, surprising the bear. "I, uh, just heard a new joke."

"Yeah?" Fozzie looked askance at him. "You're not…you're not trying to steal my spot on the show, are you?"

"What? No!" Newsie scowled.

"Okay, okay, just checking. What's the joke?"

"How many producers does it take to change a light bulb?"

"I don't know. How many?" Fozzie played along.

"'What was wrong with the old bulb?'" Newsie paraphrased. They stared at one another a beat.

"I don't get it," Fozzie said.

Newsie shook his head, disappointed. "Never mind." He went to the broom closet to find the small clothes-brush he kept; he hated lint on his jacket.

Fozzie sat there a while longer in bewilderment, brightening as he saw Zoot walking by. "Hey, hey Zoot! How many producers does it take to change a light bulb?"

The saxman paused, stared at the overeager bear a second, then muttered, "Who cares? They still won't give me enough studio time no matter _how_ well they light it!" Grumbling under his breath, he stalked off. Fozzie stared after him in even worse confusion than before.

"Dat's not how it goes," he said, puzzled.

A few Muppets looked up as Dr Honeydew, with a very anxious Beaker in tow, came slowly walking through the green room, checking the readout of the psychokinetic energy field detector (mk. III). "Look! We definitely have a strong signal here," Bunsen said, tapping Beaker on the shoulder. "Beaker! Are you paying attention?"

"Meep mee me meep," Beaker muttered, pointing vaguely upstairs, meanwhile skittishly looking every direction.

"Yes, I _know_ there was a spike outside a minute ago, but the signal is coming from somewhere in this room now," Bunsen said.

Rowlf, curious, stopped in front of the roving scientists. "Hey doc, whatcha doin'?"

"Oh, hello, Mr Rowlf. We are tracking a terribly dangerous energy field which is spontaneously generating from something within this very room!" Rowlf stared at him. Bunsen elaborated generously: "Someone or something here is actually projecting a field of intense psychokinetic manifestational energy, which, if left unchecked, could very well bring about a severe transsubstantiational quantum materializational event!"

"Mee-ment," Beaker agreed.

"Oh. Okay. Have fun," Rowlf offered, heading to the upright piano in the corner to practice. The specific arrangement of music Piggy demanded for her big number tonight was new to him, and he wanted as much familiarity with it as he could get before curtain-time. He shook his head as Bunsen scanned the piano, frowned in disappointment, and moved on. Those guys seemed to get weirder every year… He opened the sheet music, peered closely at it, and began picking out the notes on the mostly-in-tune piano.

When the Newsman emerged from his dressing-room a minute later, already opening _The Backstage Handbook_ in the hope he might actually get to finish the chapter on rigging tonight, the psychokinetic energy sensor beeped loudly. Beaker nudged Bunsen, pointing from the readout to the oblivious Newsman as he settled himself on a chair as far from everyone else as he could get to read in peace.

Bunsen glanced between Newsie and Beaker. "Yes, I see. There does seem to be a strong residual field around him. However…" Bunsen fiddled with the settings. "He's not generating it, at least at the moment. This doesn't prove your theory, Beakie."

"Hmmmm." Beaker stared at the Newsman a long moment as Bunsen continued to adjust the sensor, trying to fine-tune the readings. "Me mee meep-eep, mee meriment?" Beaker mumbled quietly so no one would overhear.

"An experiment? Hmm. But how could we determine definitively whether the Newsman is the originator of the psychokinetic field?" Bunsen snapped his fingers. "That's it! We'll just have to get him to read the news!"

Beaker stood up taller, staring in silence at Bunsen. He looked over at Newsie, who quietly turned a page, his glasses apparently not helping as much as they should, judging by the closeness of the book to his nose. Beaker looked back at Bunsen, who was still beaming. "Mee mee meep me mews mee," Beaker objected.

"I _know_ that's his job! I mean, _we_ shall have to devise a news report for him to deliver, so that we can monitor the results ourselves!"

"Mee meep mee?" Beaker wondered, bewildered. Bunsen took him by the shoulder, leading him back toward the lab.

"How fast can you type, Beakie? Tss, stt, stt!"

The opening number, a bunch of flowers singing "Isn't It a Lovely Day to Be Caught in the Rain?", got through the first chorus before they were trampled by squealing woodland creatures rushing to get out of the downpour, which Kermit accounted a decent enough beginning. "Okay, nice number, nice number," he said, nodding at the disgruntled lilies and daffodils lolloping offstage. He was about to page Fozzie when Dr Honeydew hurried up, a sheet of paper in his hand. "Uh, give me just a minute, Bunsen, okay?"

Honeydew thrust the paper at Kermit. "Oh, but Kermit, this just came in over the news machine! I happened to be…tss, sst, sst…I happened to be in the vicinity and took it upon myself to bring it to you."

"Well, why give it to me? I'm not the one who reads it!" Kermit said, frowning. He paged over the intercom: "Newsman! Newsman onstage now!"

Honeydew retreated as Newsie came jogging up the stairs, a deep frown wrinkling his brow. "I didn't hear the newswire go off!" he protested.

Kermit shook his head, handing off the paper. Pig stagehands were already sliding the news desk into place. "Well, pay more attention then! Just get out there!"

Throwing a scowl at his boss, Newsie grabbed the report and hurried onstage. One of these days, he'd break the story that would make all of them take him seriously. Thinking _At least Gina believes in me,_ he took his spot behind the desk. "Here is a Muppet News Flash! Dateline: China! Noted inventor Dr Fun Yuk Foo today announced he has perfected the formula for a phenomological text eraser." Newsie scanned the page, wishing they wouldn't give him science stories; he hated trying to correctly pronounce the technical terms.

In the wing, Beaker and Bunsen watched intently, Bunsen with an expectant smile, Beaker with a worried look. Newsie continued reading the report: "Dr Foo claims his new invention is the ultimate in intelligence warfare! It allegedly causes writing of _any_ kind to _evaporate,_ leaving only blank space. The announcement has drawn critical statements from the FBI, the CIA, Interpol, and the Liquid White-Out Company." He scowled. "Dr Foo has threatened to unleash his destructive invention into the world unless…uh, unless…" Newsie paused, flipping the paper over, but the story didn't continue on the reverse side. "Huh…er…uhm. That's all the news tonight. Thank you." Puzzled, he left the stage, peering closely at both sides of the paper. Now he couldn't even see the original story. He set the paper aside, removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses, then put them back on and checked the paper again. It was blank. Well, whatever… Shrugging, he headed back for the green room.

Bunsen's psychokinetic sensor was going haywire. "Oh! Oh, my! Beaker, it seems your theory has a great deal of merit!" he said. "Why, according to this, the readings are at…are at…" He shook the sensor, stared at it, flipped up his spectacles, flipped them down, stared again. "That's odd. The readout's gone blank."

"Mee mee mee?"

"Oh…oh, dear…"

Kermit sent Fozzie onstage, with his usual corny flourish of music. Turning back to his desk to look over the night's schedule as he habitually did, he paused, stared, then began shuffling through the pages in his datebook, then spread the notes underneath that out, shaking his head at each. "Okay, ha ha ha…who's the wise guy who switched out all my notes?" He glanced around, and saw the scientists huddled in the corner, looking concerned. "Bunsen? Did you take my notes?"

"Er…no," Honeydew said nervously.

There was a lot of booing coming from the house. "A-hahhh…a-ha-ha-ha…uh…take my wife…please!" Fozzie tried. A second later he was scurrying into the wing, ducking as a shoe sailed just over his head. "Kermit! Kermit! I do _not_ think dat was very funny!"

"Uh, no, Fozzie; it sounds like the audience agrees with you."

"No, Kermit! My cue cards! Scooter was supposed to be holding up my cue cards! Instead, he holds up a bunch of blanks! You tell him I said dat wasn't a very nice joke to play on the old bear!" Fozzie protested. Scooter hurried up, frowning.

"Hey, don't blame _me!_ Those are the cards _you_ gave me!"

"I gave you cards with _jokes_ on 'em!"

"Well, this is what you gave me, and this is what you got!" Scooter said angrily, shoving the large white pieces of heavy paper at Fozzie and going off in a huff.

"What the hey," Kermit said, bemused. Rowlf pushed his baby grand piano past, and Kermit shook himself out of it. "Fozzie, I'm sure it was just a mix-up, okay? Piggy! Miss Piggy onstage now!"

Miss Piggy sashayed down the stairs from her dressing-room, elegant in a blue velvet dress with swaths and swaths of fabric trailing behind it, so much so that one of the stagepigs had to carry it off the floor. Even Kermit had to admit she looked fabulous. "Wow…Piggy, that is some dress!"

"Thank youuu," she cooed, smoothing back her blond tresses, adjusting the tiny comb with pearlized flowers sticking up from it. "It's _tres_ Ingrid Bergman, don't _vous_ think?"

"It's very lovely," Kermit agreed. "And you'll be singing…?"

"'Blue Velvet,' what else?" she growled, then preened her way onstage behind the closed drapes. Kermit gulped, knowing she wanted this one to be big and stylish, and hurried out front to introduce her.

"Ladies and gentleman, we take you now back to the golden age of the silver screen, when femme fatales sang sexy songs to woo the wallets of the marveling masses! Here is our own Miss Piggy, singing the classic, 'Blue Velvet'!" He gave her a proper emcee's flourish with one flipper as the curtains opened.

Piggy posed in silhouette at first; then as Rowlf softly began playing, her downlight slowly came on, revealing her shining eyes and sparkling jewelry. "Sheeee…wooooore bluuuuuuuuuuee _vel_ vet," Piggy crooned, her eyes giving off a passable Bette Davis impression. "Bluuuer than vellllvet was the niiiight…" She paused, momentarily troubled, as she realized no piano music was playing under her voice. Shuffling closer to the piano, she muttered under her breath, "What's the problem, fleabait? You're supposed to be accompanying me!"

"I can't," Rowlf said, scratching his ears.

"Listen, you overgrown pound puppy, you _said_ you could play this!" Piggy growled, beginning to panic.

"I said I could play it if you gave me the music!"

 _"_ _Well?"_

"Uh, I don't got the music!" Piggy stared at him, all pretense at posing forgotten. Rowlf gestured at the blank pages on the piano music rack. "It…it just vanished while I was playing it!"

"Don't you remember enough to fake it?"

"Uh, not really."

"Well play _something!"_

"Okay…" Rowlf suddenly launched into a jaunty rendition of "Ragtime Gal."

"I am not singing _that_ in _this_ dress!" Piggy objected.

"Well, I'll sing it, then! You dance!" Rowlf said, and began howling out: "Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gowwlll…"

"Oh you have got to be _kidding me,"_ Piggy snarled, but then smiled and cooed at the audience, which was beginning to look restless. She did her best to do a Charleston in time to the music, quickly getting tangled in her acres of blue velvet. "Oh…uhn…uhh!" She toppled over, heels going up in a flip of fabric. Rowlf quickly swooped his paws over the keys to end the piece, and the curtains closed. "Aagh! Where is the frog? _Where is that frog?"_ Piggy cried.

Kermit rushed to her side, trying to get her upright and untangled. Velvet ripped under her heels as she tried to stand. "Aagh! Ugh! _What is the meaning of this?"_ she yelled, making the frog cringe. Rowlf quickly made himself and the piano scarce. With Fozzie's help, Kermit carried Piggy offstage. "My dress! My beautiful dress!" Piggy sobbed, abruptly turning angry again. "His music _disappeared off the page?_ Ohhh – where is that Newsgeek? _Where is he?_ I'll teach him what happens when you mess with the star singer twice in a row!" she promised, fighting free of everyone and running for the lower stairs. "I'll teach him not to make his stupid news repooooooorrrrraaaagh!" Tripping in the wildly slipping fabric, she tumbled down the stairs.

Kermit cringed, hurrying to the stairwell. "Uh…Piggy? Piggy? Are you okay?"

Piggy attempted to blow her hair off her snout. "Fine. Just _fine."_ Her eyes narrowed, scanning the green room. "Where is he?"

With a nervous gulp, glad _he_ wasn't the target, Kermit ran back to the stage manager's desk. "Uh…okay…Sam? Sam, where are – oh." The eagle stood stiffly next to the desk, staring oddly at him. "Ah, there you are. I, uh, I seem to have lost my notes, but you were going on next, right?"

"Kermit, I do not pretend to understand what kind of _weirdness_ is at work here tonight, but I cannot go on." Sam's eyes shifted around the room, resting suspiciously on everything they touched.

"Oh? But I thought you really wanted to do that public service thing on adult literacy tonight," Kermit said, surprised.

"Well, uh…" Sam bent over, whispering in a slightly less loud voice than usual. "It seems I, uh, I am unable to _read_ the public service announcement."

"Sam, you're kidding!" Kermit said, surprised. _"You_ can't read? I always thought you could before!"

"Of _course_ I can read!" Annoyed, the eagle waved a bunch of blank sheets of paper at Kermit. "My announcement is invisible! I believe this trick to be the work of certain _subversive elements_ who have infiltrated the theatre! Perhaps that Chinese scientist has targeted _us_ for his diabolical deed, seeing that we are upholders of moral standards and the sacred norms of society!"

"Sam, I very much doubt that," Kermit said, his face crumpling unhappily. He looked around. "What am I going to do? Who _doesn't_ need to read their act to do it?"

"Hey, little green man, we gotcha covered," Floyd Pepper said, strolling lazily through.

"Man, I don't even know _how_ to read them little black dots!" Dr Teeth joked, right behind him. Zoot just gave Kermit a look, shrugged, and carried his sax out.

"The Electric Mayhem it is, then," Kermit sighed. "Hey, Scooter, could you fly in the rainbow backdrop for them?"

"Uh, I was just going to," Scooter said, startling Kermit at his elbow, "but I can't tell which fly line it's on."

"Whaddaya mean? It's the one labeled 'rainbow backdrop'!" Kermit said.

 _"_ _I_ know that! But Kermit, all the labels on the fly lines are gone!"

Kermit shook, startled again. "What? What the hey is going on here tonight?"

Downstairs, the Newsman was smoothing down the front of his jacket as he came out of the restroom, not looking where he was going. The enraged pig blindsided him. _"Hiii-yahh!"_ She swung at him; he winced, unable to retreat, but Piggy's gown caught on her shoes again, and her chop missed him as she went bottoms-up.

"What did _I_ do?" Newsie choked out, taking the opportunity to put some distance between himself and Piggy while she fought with her dress.

"You and your –ungh – _stupid_ news reports –grrr – have embarrassed me for the last time, four-eyes!" Piggy yelled, struggling to free herself. "Unnnngh! Will somebody get me outta this thing?"

"Oh, dear," Bunsen said, watching from a safe corner. "This experiment is having some unforeseen consequences!"

"Meep!" Beaker agreed.

Newsie fled to his dressing-room, shutting the door and barricading it with Beau's mop-buckets inside. Piggy tore the entire trail of her dress off, striding angrily to the broom closet. "Newsgeek! I know you're in there! Open this door!" she shouted, pounding on the door so hard the hinges squealed.

"Oh, man, she is _so_ gonna cream him," Rizzo cackled, watching.

"Si, si, he will be little Newsitos when she is done, okay," Pepe agreed. He turned to Rizzo, an idea striking him. "Hey, we are needing the refreshments for this sporting events, si?"

"Si," Rizzo said. "I mean, yeah! Go see what Chef has!"

Pepe scuttled over to the canteen. The Swedish Chef was in the process of cooking some pepper steak when he noticed the shrimp trying to sneak off with an entire sack of chocolate chips he'd intended for chocolate-covered rice later. "Sveen! Sern de bol de hoon foo!" the Chef yelled, waving his spatula at Pepe. The shrimp dodged back and forth, hopping all around the counter, as the angry Chef swatted at him. Chocolate chips went everywhere, flour puffed up and coated his hat, and ingredients in bags and boxes were scattered on the floor. "Hummen der choopsies vern nooo der scrimpens!" the Chef shouted as Pepe beat a hasty retreat after getting hit with the spatula.

"Okay, okay, I am going!" Pepe protested, rubbing his rear end in a rare moment of chagrin. Rizzo shook his head at him. Pepe glared, waving two arms at him. "What? _What?_ Okay _you_ go try it if you wants the munchies so bad!"

"Scrimpens foon her der steelins," the Chef muttered, turning back to his pepper steak. He reached for the container of pepper, not finding it. Looking around, he saw all his spices had been knocked to the floor. Grumbling, he picked it all up, then scratched his head, squinting in confusion at two identical unlabeled canisters. Shrugging, he picked one, opening it and shaking the contents into his hot-frying skillet.

It proved not to be the pepper, but the gunpowder he'd ordered for making gunpowder tea.

Kermit felt the floor shake from the explosion. "Ack! Scooter! Go see what that was!"

"On it, boss!"

"Hey! Did somebody steal my act?" Crazy Harry popped up, complaining.

"That _wasn't_ him? Oh, good grief," Kermit sighed.

The entire kitchen was scorched, the stove a mangled wreck of stainless steel and crazily coiled burners. The Chef was blackened as his ice cream the day before. Flour and various exploded spices made a colorful coating over the dining area. Rizzo hurried off, a tiny piece of the unpeppered steak in his paws; Pepe was right on his tail, warning, "Hey, I do not think you should eat that, okay?"

Scooter stared in awe at the ruins. A hole had been knocked through the wall into the boiler room. "Oh, man…Kermit! You better come down here!" he yelled as loudly as he could. "Oh, man…we should call the gas company…I hope the line's not broken…"

"I hope my _back's_ not broken," Link Hogthrob groaned. He'd been coming to the kitchen counter to ask the Chef whether he could have the peppered steak without the steak, as he was counting his calories these days. A few yards away, Piggy moaned, picking herself off the floor. Rowlf touched the front of his piano worriedly; he'd ducked behind it when he heard the noise. Happily, it didn't seem to be injured. Inside the broom closet, Newsie cringed on the floor, wondering what on earth was going on, not daring to check.

Kermit ran down the stairs, looking in shock at the mess. "The kitchen? _Chef!"_

Dazed, the Chef waved his arms weakly. "Borgen noonen der boom-boom!"

"Will someone please tell me what the hey is going on around here?" Kermit yelled, waving his flippers angrily.

"I've called the gas company. I don't think the main line was damaged, but they'll check and make sure," Scooter told him.

"Good! Now how did this happen?"

The Chef, Link, and Rizzo all began talking at once.

"Svernen der peeper steaken, und –"

"I think it was _too hot_ a hot pepper…"

"Man, that guy's crazy! He's gonna get us all killed one'a these days!"

"Uh, boss? Take a look at this!"

Exasperated, Kermit looked at the spice cans Scooter was holding up. "Spices? What about them?"

"Look at the labels!"

"What labels?" Kermit got it. "Hey Chef…did these have labels when you got them?"

"Ya! Allen der speecy-spicees hooven der paper-aper-aperenns," the Chef nodded, wiping flour and various unidentified things from his face.

"I think I understand," Kermit said, frowning deeply. He turned around to see Piggy trying to dust herself off, although the remainder of the dress was now covered in soot and spices too thickly to ever be salvageable. "Uh, Piggy? Are you all right?"

 _"_ _Moi_ is perfectly all right, thank you, Kermie," she said, managing dignity somehow. She leaned toward the still-closed broom closet door. "Which is more than I can say for a certain cowardly Newsgeek!"

"I have _had_ it," Kermit fumed, hopping over to the door. He banged on it. "Newsman! Get out here! _Now!_ This has gone far enough!"

"Yeah, get your scrawny yellow butt out here so I can kick it into the middle of next week," Piggy growled.

Annoyed, Kermit motioned her back. "Piggy, let me handle this. Open up!"

Terrified, Newsie cracked the door open. "It's not my fault!"

"It's not your fault? Of _course_ it's your fault! _None_ of your ridiculous news stories are supposed to backfire on anybody but _you,_ and all of a sudden we're _all_ getting hit by them!" Kermit shouted, making Newsie cringe behind the door.

"I swear I have _no idea_ why, Kermit!" the Newsman whimpered. "I just read them! I don't make this stuff happen, it just does!"

"Out! Out! _Out!"_ the frog shrieked. Terrified, Newsie slammed the door shut again.

Rizzo stepped up. "Hey Kermit, let me try." When Kermit, scowling, stepped aside a bit, the rat knocked on the door. "Hey, Newsie? It's me, Rizzo."

A short pause; then Newsie's trembling voice came through the door: "R-rizzo?"

"Yeah, that's right, it's me. Listen, no one's gonna hurt you. We just wanna talk. Come on out."

"P-promise?"

"I swear on my mudder's cheese soufflé. Come on! Open the door!"

Cautiously, Newsie started to open the door. When it had swung out a few inches, Piggy grabbed it and threw it all the way open, her other hand grabbing Newsie's tie and yanking him bodily from the tiny cubicle. "All right, you freak, enough is enough! That's _two_ of my new outfits you've ruined! Now you die!" she growled.

"Aaagh!" Newsie struggled backward, but the tie was choking him. Piggy hauled back one leg, delivering a powerful kick. _"Hiii-yahhh!"_ The impact sent Newsie flying across the room, Piggy releasing his tie at the same moment for maximum velocity.

"Eh, my mudder makes a _lousy_ soufflé," Rizzo shrugged, walking off.

As the Newsman trembled, out of breath, back hurting from his flight's sudden stop at one of the upended tables, Kermit stomped over to him. "I don't know _what's_ got into you lately, but you'd better knock it off, or you'll be out of a job!" the frog warned. "Now get out of here before we lose the writing on our paychecks!"

"Too late," Scooter called down, having already run to check that possibility. Everyone within hearing distance groaned.

"Yeesh," Kermit said, shaking his head in disgust. He tromped back upstairs to figure out what to do about the rest of the show tonight.

"I didn't do it," Newsie gasped, still painfully sprawled next to the collapsed table. "I didn't do it!"

"Jinxen-loozener," the Chef muttered, shaking his bent spatula.

"Weirdo," Link said, slowly trudging off.

Honeydew and Beaker looked at one another. "Oh, dear," Bunsen said quietly. "That went rather badly, I'm afraid."

Beaker looked back at the injured, shaking Newsman as he tried to crawl to an upright position. "Mee meep," he said softly.

"Look, the readout's working again," Bunsen said, nudging his colleague. "It would seem our Newsman is still bursting with residual psychokinetic energy! That's a _much_ higher reading than before the News Flash!"

Beaker nodded, feeling sorry for the Newsman. No one helped him up, and everyone else seemed to be giving him very dirty looks as he slowly made his way, shaking, over to the stairs and climbed up. Beaker sighed. "Me meep mee," he said to Bunsen.

"What? Beaker, all _we_ did was provide the format for the energy field to flow into! You certainly can not claim _we_ were responsible for this! No," Bunsen sighed, "I'm afraid our poor Newsman has definitely become a conduit for forces far beyond our current ability to harness. Perhaps further research will provide a solution…if there _is_ one." He started toward the lab, tugging on Beaker's sleeve. "Come on, Beaker. There's nothing else we can do here. Let's mix up some hydrochloric cocoa and take a look at the data."

"Mee," Beaker sighed, staring after the Newsman sadly. Then he turned and trudged along behind Bunsen.

As Newsie slowly headed for the back door, flinching at every angry comment or sharp look directed his way backstage, Kermit looked up. The frog shouted after him, "Newsman! Consider yourself suspended! Until you've got whatever this is under control, I don't want to see you back here! No news reports until we're sure the only victim of them will be _you!"_

Head low, Newsie nodded once, and pushed open the back door. When it closed quietly behind him, Kermit sighed, shaking his head. "Maybe he's finally snapped." He looked over at Scooter. "Do we have anything that can go on next?"

"Uh, yeah. Whatever you want! The writing's all back."

"What?" Kermit looked at his notes. Sure enough, all the acts he'd scheduled the next few days were penciled in right where they should be. Relieved, he yelled, "Fozzie? Hey, Fozzie? You want to try your jokes again?"

Outside, Newsie stopped, holding on to the loading dock railing. He didn't want to cry. He really, really did not want to cry. Why was everything going strange? What if Kermit was right; what if it _was_ his fault? He'd long ago accepted his unlucky nature, and bore it as best he could. What if…what if he was getting _worse?_ He took a deep breath, feeling wetness at the corners of his eyes. Struggling to contain it, he made himself walk down the steps into the alley, then along the alley to the street at the far end, heading slowly for Gina's apartment. What was he going to tell her about this? He clutched his hands together in front of his chest tightly, wondering how she'd take the news. Was there some Gypsy spell which could make him harmless again? He felt the bracelet on his wrist, and held in a sob. What if…what if her protection had deflected the things that normally happened to him onto everyone else? Should he take it off? Would she be disappointed with him if he did? What if he _did_ remove it, and _nothing_ was fixed, and he was out of a job and professionally ruined?

What if she told him to leave because he was too much of a jinx?

He couldn't hold back the tears at that.

When he reached the apartment, he slid her key into the lock; it opened easily. The apartment was quiet, of course, and dark. He left it that way. Shutting the door behind him, he walked into the bedroom, his stomach hurting from the kick, his back aching from the landing. He stared morosely at her bed, thinking he didn't deserve to be in it again. Who knows what further damage he might do?

Newsie went back into the living room, pulled his shoes off, climbed onto the generous seat of the long sofa, and stared out the window. He didn't move, even when the phone rang later.

When Gina opened the door, her movements rushed and worried, she found him sitting in the darkened room, the lamp in the aquarium barely bright enough to reveal his location. "Newsie? Newsie, are you all right?" She immediately went to him, taking his hands in hers.

He simply looked up at her, swallowing hard, ashamed that she would see the tears still trickling down, but too numb to wipe them away. "What happened? What's wrong?" she asked, quickly touching his face, his shoulder, wondering if he was hurt.

"I know for a fact I'm jinxed, just like Lewis said," he said finally, his voice a rough whisper. "And…" He had to swallow down a thickness in his throat. "And I think I'm getting worse."

Gina stared at him. He stared back.

When she pulled him into her arms, he simply crumpled.


	23. Chapter 23

Rizzo tossed things out of the dumpster, disgruntled at how few food items had been discarded after the kitchen explosion. "Man…you'd think at least the chocolate chips would've wound up here," he grumbled.

"Hey, rat," said a voice. Rizzo stuck his head up over the lip of the dumpster.

"Someone called?"

A skinny guy in a dirty jacket with long stringy gray hair and hippie shades looked inside, peering closely at the chunks of kitchen counter. "Did you guys have a gas line explosion? I saw the company truck here earlier. Tell me, is this a case of corporate negligence resulting in death and destruction?" he asked, taking out a small notepad and a pen.

Rizzo shook his head. "What are you, an insurance adjuster?"

"Uh…that's right. I'm with Mutual Supercilious. Can you tell me how the explosion happened?"

"Maybe," Rizzo said, hopping down from the dumpster to perch on the edge of the loading dock. "What's, uh, what's my cut of the settlement, if ya catch my drift?"

"You work here at the Muppet Theatre?"

"Dat's right. I'm a, watchacallit…a stagehand," Rizzo proclaimed, thinking he was only stretching the truth a little. After all, he _had_ occasionally helped out.

The skinny guy nodded, scribbling on his pad. "I see. Well, you understand, I can't promise you anything until the company settles…but there is a substantial, er, testimonial reward."

"Reward?" Rizzo brightened. "Could I get that in cheese?"

"Hey, mac, you can get it any way you like," the skinny guy assured him. His pen poised for another run across the page. "Now tell me, in your own words, what exactly happened?"

"Well, it wasn't the gas line," Rizzo said.

"It wasn't? Why was their truck here?"

"Oh, just for safety precautions. The Chef blew up the kitchen and part'a the back wall. Took out the stove. But they checked it and said the gas line was okay." Rizzo leaned in, trying to read the chickenscratch the guy was making with his pen. "Uh, do I still get a reward if the gas company didn't do it?"

"Uh…well, we'll see. It all depends who gets assigned the blame, you understand," the skinny guy said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "So…this is all the fault of the Swedish Chef?"

"Oh, you know him?"

"We insure your theatre," the skinny guy said. "Of course we know everyone who performs here!"

"Oh, right, gotcha. Well, no…I mean, yeah, the Chef blew it up, but it wasn't totally his fault… _this_ time," Rizzo explained.

"Really?" Skinny Guy seemed impatient. "Then whose fault _was_ it?"

"Hey, I thought that was _your_ job to find out!"

"Whaddaya think I'm _doing?"_ Skinny Guy waved an irritated arm at the back of the theatre. "So if the Chef didn't actually start the whole thing, who did?"

"That jinxed geek," Rizzo said, shaking his head.

"Jinxed?" Skinny Guy lowered his glasses, staring directly into Rizzo's face. "Mr Rat, do you know it's a violation of Mutual Supercilious policy to have a known jinx on the premises?"

"It is?"

"It's a _serious_ fine! Tell me, how did the whole thing begin?"

"Well," Rizzo paused, wondering if he could still get the reward even though his information was third-hand. "See, I heard it from Clarence, who heard it from Agnes, who heard it from Ricky, who overheard Kermit yelling…"

"Wait, hold on. Who's Clarence? Who's Agnes?"

"Oh – Clarence is a rat. Agnes is one'a the chickens, but don't ask me to point her out to ya, 'cause they all look the same to me. A-and Ricky is a pig, one'a the stagehands," Rizzo explained. Skinny Guy paused.

"I thought you said _you_ were a stagehand?"

"I am. Dat's right."

"But you weren't onstage to overhear Kermit yelling?"

"Uh…I was. Uh. Up in the rafters. Doing stagehandy things."

The skinny guy flashed a brief, nasty grin. "Don't you mean the grid?"

"Right. Didn't I say grid? Aren't you _listening?"_ Rizzo shook his head. "Geez! You wanna hear this or not?"

"Okay, okay. So what did your buddy overhear?"

"Well, after the dust settled, Kermit was yelling about the news report. Apparently it made all the words on everything disappear." Rizzo stared at the skinny guy. He stared back. He tapped his pen on the notepad.

"The news. Made words. Disappear."

"Dat's what I _said,"_ Rizzo growled. "Honestly! Don't they teach you how to interview witnesses in insurance adjustor school?"

"How did the news make words disappear? And what the heck does that have to do with the kitchen blowing up?" Skinny Guy snapped.

Rizzo sighed. "Okay, look. We got this guy works for the theatre. Calls himself Newsman. He's the one that's a total jinx. Believe me, I should know! I roomed with him for a while, and you should _see_ what happened to _that_ place!"

Skinny Guy's whole mood changed. He put a hand around the rat's shoulders. Uncomfortable, Rizzo looked at that, then at the guy's suddenly broad smile. "Now _that_ is information I can use! Hey…how would you like a grilled cheese sandwich?"

 _"_ _Would_ I?" Rizzo hopped down from the dock. "Hey, you just bought yourself one heck of a report, insurance man! Lead on! My tongue is at your command!"

Smiling still, Fleet Scribbler led the gullible rodent off to a sleazy café he knew of, figuring there were so many bugs and rodents already in the place they probably wouldn't notice one more, especially at this time of night. This sounded like an even more interesting scoop than he'd thought.

"How's it coming?" Gina asked.

Newsie didn't look up, peering at the large pot where he stirred around the tortellini in sauce. "Fine." He'd barely said three words in the last hour, and once recovered from his embarrassing emotional collapse, he'd insisted on fixing dinner. He wasn't hungry in the least, nor did he know how to actually cook much of anything, but when Gina had suggested they just warm up a frozen pasta meal he'd taken on the chore. He could follow directions just fine, thank you; at least the writing on the bag didn't seem to be vanishing. The effects of the News Flash seemed to have worn off. Standing on a kitchen stepstool and with Gina's black cooking apron tied over his shirt, he stirred around the pasta, judging it almost done by the clock. It smelled good enough, but he couldn't work up any enthusiasm for it.

Gina slipped her hands down his shoulders, holding him from behind. He paused, wanting badly to give in to her touch, but felt heat in his eyes. He didn't want to start crying again. It had been humiliating enough the first time, even though Gina didn't seem to think he was a weakling for it. He kept stirring. Gina sighed silently, kissed the top of his head, and moved over to the 'fridge. "Want a salad with it?"

"Sure."

At least she wasn't pressing him to talk more about it. When he'd withdrawn, she'd simply suggested one of the packaged meals from her freezer, and although she hung around the kitchen, she wasn't saying much. He'd choked out all that had happened that night, from the News Flash to Piggy's ruined number (and dress) to the blown-up kitchen. He didn't mention being drop-kicked across the green room, too ashamed. Gina had tried, holding him, to persuade him Kermit was wrong, that it wasn't his fault, but that only made Newsie more upset. _Other_ newscasters didn't have the bizarre bad luck he did! He'd worked for years at a local TV station, had known many other reporters, and no matter how bad or good they were, or how weird or normal the stories _they_ reported, _he_ was the only one who ever experienced these kinds of effects. It had to be him. He still didn't understand how things were spreading out to his colleagues, but clearly he was the source somehow.

He hadn't brought up the idea of taking off her bracelet. He wasn't sure how she'd receive that suggestion.

Noting the requisite eight minutes had elapsed, he checked the pasta. It all seemed warmed up and the sauce was steaming. He turned off the burner, picked a large wooden spoon out of the decorative bucket of implements beside the stove, and split the contents of the pot into two large bowls. Neatly he removed the apron, hung it back on the hook where he'd found it, put the pot in the sink to soak, and carried both bowls to the kitchen table, where Gina already had tableware and two smaller bowls of mixed salad greens set.

"You're nicely domesticated," she told him, smiling. He glanced up at her as he took a seat.

"I had to do everything for my mother. She…she had health issues."

"I'm sorry," Gina said, taking his hand in hers. He paused, caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to cling to her. "Newsie…thank you."

"What for?"

"For trying so hard. You don't have to, you know."

He wasn't sure what she meant. "I agreed to have dinner ready for you. It wasn't."

"It's okay," she said. "This is fine. And you didn't have to."

"I don't like not keeping promises," he said, staring at his food.

"Newsie…although I love how serious you are, I want you to relax. You had a horrible night. People who have horrible nights are excused from household chores."

"They are?" He looked up, genuinely shocked. That had _never_ been the case at Mother's house. He couldn't count the number of truly humiliating nights he'd had at work – at either job, and sometimes both – and he'd been expected to do the cooking, the cleaning, all of it, regardless of how horrible he came home feeling.

Gina could read his face easily, and guess at his past. "Oh…Newsie. I am so sorry." She squeezed his hand, holding his gaze with her own. "Okay. New rule for you. Bad workday equals you get out of responsibilities free. You do the same for me on _my_ bad days. Deal?"

"That…that sounds fair," he mumbled, surprised. "Are you sure?"

In reply, she leaned over, kissed him, and gave him a worried smile. After a moment he nodded, looked down at the food again, and out of politeness speared a tortellini on his fork. Gina began eating as well. He took three or four purely mechanical bites, swallowing without tasting. Suddenly her hand was on his again. He looked up.

Gina rose, sighing. "Come on. Let me do something for you."

"Wh-what?"

"Just come with me. Please."

To his utter shock, she led him into the bathroom. It was large enough for them both to stand in on the fluffy rug, but he looked nervously at the door. "What – Gina – I don't –"

"Newsie…shhh."

"Oh!" He turned away, embarrassed, as she pulled off her shirt. What was she _thinking?_ The bathroom door was still slightly open, and the lights were on, and – and – he was in here! He heard more soft fabric sounds behind him, and took a step toward the door. "Uh – I'll just – just give you some privacy –"

"Did I say I wanted privacy?" He felt her touch on his shoulders, and froze. He started to look back, realized with a shock she'd shed all her clothes, and quickly closed his eyes, ashamed. "It's okay. Newsie, I promise. It's okay." He felt her unbuttoning his shirt.

"But…the lights are on…"

She laughed. "Do you think I'm gonna shower in the dark? Come on. You too."

A few minutes later, with hot water raining down on him, the lush scent of whatever exotic liquid soap she used filling his nose, and her hands on his back very gently rubbing, Newsie finally opened his eyes a crack. Trembling, he forced his gaze upward and back until he saw her looking down, smiling. "Hi," she said.

He swallowed hard. "Hi."

She sighed, and her fingers kneaded his shoulders, and he realized she could see as much of him as he could of her, if he dared move his eyes that direction. He blushed, and then she was kneeling, and then she was embracing him, and then he was crying again. The water dissolved his tears. She didn't say anything. She just held onto him, and he held tightly to her, and then everything was somehow all right.

Even though the lights stayed on.

"Ba-kawk!" Camilla exclaimed, scratching at the newspaper someone had left by the back door of the theatre.

Gonzo glanced down at the banner, and said disapprovingly, "Oh, Camilla! That rag isn't good enough for you to shred! Look, if you want some newspaper for the nest, I can go get you a copy of the _New York Times."_

"Bawwwwk…bu-gawk," she said, trying to get him to look at the paper.

"What is this even doing here? I _hope_ no one here subscribes to this junk," Gonzo muttered, picking it up. He wasn't often around so early in the morning, but he had some ideas for a new act involving multiple trapezes hung from the scenery battens and chickens fluttering from rung to rung while he hung upside down from one playing "Amazing Grace" on the accordion, and wanted to work the kinks of it out before anyone else arrived. He noticed the biggest headline, right under the _Daily Scandal_ banner, was RABID ROACHES ROMP RAMPANT AT ROXY! Shaking his head, he was about to toss it into the recycling bin when he saw the story Camilla had been flustered about, two columns down, right above the fold in the paper: MUPPET NEWSMAN TURNS VIOLENT!

"Whhaaaaat?" Gonzo spluttered, his eyes opening wide. "Good grief, we take one night off to visit your sister in Jersey, and what happens?" Quickly he read the article, turning to page 5, then page 8, to get every bit of it. There was an embarrassing photo on page 5 of the Newsman being choked by Spike Milligan years back. "This can't be true! Camilla, what's going on?" he asked. Camilla clucked, giving him an impatient look; she'd been with him, of course, and hadn't the foggiest. Gonzo flipped back to page one, and saw Fleet Scribbler's byline on the story. "Oh, for crying out loud! Come on, let's see if Kermit is here yet."

The back door was unlocked; Beauregard usually arrived much earlier than anyone, doing whatever janitorial duties made him happy, and sometimes special projects which usually made Kermit unhappy. Gonzo walked around backstage, seeing no one. "Kermit? Beau? Helloooo!"

"I think no one else is here yet," squeaked a small voice. Gonzo looked down to see a dainty rat peering curiously at him.

"Oh, hi. Are you one of Rizzo's friends?"

"Ha! As if."

"I found this on the back steps. Do you have any idea what's going on?" Gonzo asked, showing her the paper. He paused, sniffing. "Why do I smell burnt aluminum and oregano?"

"The kitchen blew up last night. Long story." The female rat spread the paper on the stage floor, absorbed in reading. She too flipped to page 5, snorted, then page 8.

"Wow, you read fast," Gonzo said. "It's not true, is it?"

The rat snorted again. "That guy? He couldn't hurt a mouse! Of _course_ this isn't true! The only person I've ever seen him go after was that idiot Rizzo!"

"What'd you call me?" On cue, Rizzo wandered over, his stomach fatter than usual. He burped at them, then snickered. "Heh. 'Scuse me."

"'Inside source'? _What_ 'inside source'? This is ridiculous!" Rhonda fumed. "I was here last night, sleeping in the costume shop until the explosion woke me up, and I can tell you the Newsman was definitely _not_ running around with a chainsaw, laughing crazily and yelling _'Heeeeeeere's Newsie!'"_

"Hey, you weren't even in the kitchen! _I_ was, and I saw the whole thing!" Rizzo protested. Gonzo stared from one of them to the other.

"In the kitchen stealing food, I bet, not paying attention to anyone else!" Rhonda snapped at Rizzo. "Look, the only one doing any yelling that I heard was Kermit, and he was telling Newsie to leave, and that he was suspended. Newsie wasn't on a rampage, gumball-fuelled or otherwise! He looked very down and very hurt, and that was all."

"A gumball-fuelled rampage?" Gonzo wondered.

Rizzo sighed. "Sheesh! People can't get anything right! I told that guy it musta been all that poison popcorn his girlfriend gave out!"

"Poison popcorn?" Gonzo asked. Camilla tilted her head sideways in disbelief.

"Yeah! Aw, buddy, it was terrible! I ate some and lemme tell ya, my tummy was sick for the next day!"

 _"_ _That's_ because you were trying to drink the fake butter out of the microwave," Rhonda huffed, disgusted. She did a double-take. "Wait, what guy? Rizzo, were you talking to Scribbler?"

"Huh? No, I was talking to some insurance guy. He came by last night asking about the explosion. When the settlement goes through, I get a nice chunk of the award money," Rizzo said proudly.

Rhonda stared at him in utter astonishment. After a second she thwapped him over the head with the paper.

"Oww! Hey, what am I, a dog?"

"You're a total _moron!_ That was no insurance adjustor, that was a tabloid reporter!" Rhonda squealed.

"Oh boy," Gonzo murmured. "Come on, Camilla. Let's go see if there's any chickenfeed and bologna left…"

"How was I supposed to know he was a reporter? What, do they wear special t-shirts that say 'I'm a scuzzy reporter, don't talk to me'?" Rizzo protested.

"I think the whole disreputable ambiance should've been a tipoff, yeah," Rhonda said.

Rizzo bristled. _"Who's_ gotta ambiance?"

"You don't even know what an ambiance _is!_ Give me that!"

"Hey, if you hit me over the head again, I'm telling!"

"Who? The health department? Rizzo, I can't believe you did this!"

"Fine," Rizzo yelled, "Fine! But lemme tell ya, sister, when my settlement award comes through, I'm not sharing it with _you!"_ He stomped off, though his engorged stomach made it a little less impressive than he intended.

"Idiot," Rhonda muttered, looking through the paper again. "Oh, man. I hope no one else sees this." She sat there a moment, thinking, then decided she had to do something. After all, the Newsman had shared his Froot Loops with her a time or two. It wasn't _his_ fault he was jinxed. Nodding determinedly, she rolled up the paper again, held it over her head, and trotted off.

In the green room, Gonzo found Beau straightening chairs. Gonzo's eyes widened again when he saw the stove completely gone, half the prep counter missing, and soot and some kind of spices plastered everywhere. "Holy cow! Hey, is there anything left to eat?"

Beau blinked at him. "Uh, sure…as long as you like everything with hot pepper, cinnamon, and dill."

"Cool!" Gonzo happily dug through the remains.

Newsie didn't have much experience with breakfast cooking other than oatmeal, but a look through Gina's pantry revealed a box of Kap'n's Frosted Wheatiebits 'n' Crunchies. He was pretty sure he could fix cereal. Not knowing how much milk she liked in hers, he poured a glass of it as well as one of orange juice. She was still asleep when he carefully brought a little bamboo tray with breakfast things into the bedroom and set it on the end of the bed. Unsure how to wake her, he stood at the side of the bed and cleared his throat loudly. When she stirred gently, he reached over and touched her hand. "Gina?"

"Hmmm?"

"Uh. I brought you breakfast. If you want any, I mean. It's…it's okay if you don't, I just thought…er…"

He heard her giggling into her pillow. He swallowed, blinking in surprise. "Er. Was that funny?"

She rolled over, almost unsettling the tray; Newsie grabbed it hurriedly before anything spilled. "You made breakfast?"

He felt ridiculous. "Uh. Just cereal."

"That's fine. I like cereal." She propped herself on one elbow, smiling at him, her hair spilling over her bare shoulders, down her chest… Newsie blinked again, reminded unexpectedly she didn't sleep in pajamas. She sat up, the sheet draped off one shoulder like a toga, and looked at the tray. "Cool. I get milk _and_ juice?"

"I didn't know if you liked milk in your cereal."

"I like how you plan ahead," she said, making him blush again, but he started to relax. She seemed pleased. "However…there's something else I'd like."

"Oh." His face fell. "Uh. Sure. What is it? Can I bring it for you?"

"Three steps."

"Huh?"

"Step one: set that tray on my desk." She indicated the antique wooden drafting table which she kept angled flat as a desk, pushed against one bedroom wall. Uncertainly, he did so. Gina smiled. "Step two. Glasses off."

"Er…how am I going to get you whatever –"

"Step three. Get in here."

 _"_ _Oh,"_ he said, eyes widening. She grinned, stretching so that the sheet fell off. Red as he could feel his cheeks turning, he had to admit to himself a certain…indecent appreciation for her boldness. "Now?"

"Oh yeah. Now."

An hour later, when both of them had donned robes and were enjoying bowls of cereal at the kitchen table, Gina showed him how to heat the kettle properly and how to use the French coffee press. Today she chose an organic vanilla-cinnamon coffee. The scent of it filling the kitchen as it steeped in the press had Newsie sniffing deeply, resting his chin upon one hand, elbow on the table, feeling amazingly relaxed. He watched her getting two mugs out of the dish rack, feeling suddenly very happy that one of those was now his. "Thank you," he said softly to her.

Gina paused, looking over, then smiled and came to offer a kiss. "For what?"

"Everything." He couldn't help it; all he wanted to do was sit there and smile at her. She laughed, kissed him again, and poured the coffee.

"Feel better?" she asked, settling into the other chair. She pushed his mug over, and the deliciously sweet odor of it made him inhale strongly, appreciatively. He nodded, taking a long sip, loving the warmth of the rich liquid.

"Good. You, oh Much-Abused Journalist, are taking a day off."

"I am?"

"You are. I have so decreed it. Today, we are going to lay around in these robes, and read books together, watch TV, and eat, and be lazy and dissolute. At least until I have to go to work." She drank deeply, her eyes gleaming over the rim of her mug at him.

"I don't think I've ever, uh, been dissolute before," Newsie said, considering it. "Is that the same thing as being dissolved? There was this report once about an acid spill…" He shuddered.

"No!" She looked shocked, then laughed. _"How_ have you possibly survived all the stuff you've gone through?"

Newsie shrugged. "I'm not sure. It may just be a Muppet thing." He gave her an apologetic look. "Is that weird?"

"No." She took his fingers in her own, stroking them gently. He was amazed at how intimate that felt. "If you can accept my Gypsy things, I can accept your Muppet things."

"Deal," he grinned, and Gina laughed.

"There's that cute smile! Aha, and there's the cute blush. I like those," she said.

He cleared his throat, embarrassed but pleased, and dove into the coffee once more. A knock sounded faintly on the front door. They glanced at one another, puzzled. Gina held up a finger to him, rose from the table, and went to investigate. Listening intently, he heard Gina's surprise: "Rhonda?"

Newsie frowned. Oh, no. Were the rats going to move in here? He'd really been enjoying the privacy he'd had with Gina! Dismay turned quickly to annoyance. Making sure his robe sash was tied tightly around his waist, he hurried through the dining room, but when he stepped into the living room he saw only one rat. Gina was saying, "I like the haircut. Is that a pixie bob?"

"Yeah, I thought it would be cute for spring," Rhonda replied. She saw Newsie and began fidgeting nervously.

"No," he said, stopping a couple of feet away, crossing his arms over his chest. "We do _not_ need a housekeeper!"

"Well good, 'cause I'm not offering!" the rat squeaked indignantly. "Look, I just came by because I thought you ought to see this." She unfurled a newspaper.

 _"_ _The Daily Scandal?"_ Gina read, taking the paper gently. "Is it worse than the _Post?"_

"Much," Newsie and Rhonda chorused, then looked at one another.

"Rabid roaches?" Gina started to laugh.

"No…further down, right column," Rhonda directed. Curious, Newsie came closer. He saw Gina's face pale, her fingers stiffen against the paper.

"You have got to be kidding me," Gina said in a low, angry voice. "They _print_ this stuff?"

"It's their trademark," Rhonda sighed. "I just thought, as a fellow _legitimate_ journalist, you'd want to know," she said to Newsie.

He gave her a startled look. "You're a journalist?"

The rat sighed, shaking her head. "How fleeting fame. Yes! And Scribbler's done a real hatchet job on you. I dunno if you have a lawyer, but the phrase 'injurious libel' does come to mind here."

"Newsie…" Gina looked up from the paper. He took a step back, alarmed at the fire in her usually cool eyes. "Why does this guy Scribbler hate you? Did you beat him out for the News Flash job or something?"

"Not that I know of," Newsie said, growing angry himself. "I know he did get banned from the Muppet Theatre for stalking someone, years ago. What's he done now?"

"It's more like what he's accusing _you_ of," Gina said. She handed the paper to him. As he skimmed the article in rising consternation, Gina knelt to offer a hand to the rat. "Thank you for telling us, Rhonda."

"Anytime." Rhonda paused, giving Newsie an anxious look. "Is he gonna be okay?"

The Newsman trembled in building rage, flipping to page 5. When he saw the outrageous old photo, he made a series of incoherent stutters. Gina looked grimly at Rhonda. "Yeah. Don't worry, I'll –"

 _"_ _Scribbler!"_ Newsie yelled, throwing the paper in the air and tearing down the hall to the bedroom. He fought free of the robe, tossing it aside roughly, grabbed his pants, and looked wildly around for a clean shirt. In under a minute he was dressed, although _sans_ tie, and barreling for the front door.

Gina caught him. "Whoa! Newsie, Newsie, calm down."

"Like heck I will! That dirty, sleazy, lying –" he let out a few words which made Rhonda squeak and cover her ears. _"How dare he!"_

"Whoo boy," Rhonda muttered, edging out of the way.

"What are you going to do? You can't just run over there and waylay him," Gina argued.

"Oh no? Watch me!" He turned to Rhonda. "Do you have any idea where that scumbag is right now?"

"I do, actually," the rat said, her tiny brow wrinkling. "I saw him hanging around the alley as I was leaving the theatre. He tried to interview me. I told him where he could stick it!"

"Newsie – I completely agree with you; Scribbler deserves the worst. But why give him more ammunition?" Gina said, trying to restrain the furious Newsman. He proved to be remarkably strong in this agitated state.

"Gina," he huffed, breaking free, his voice harsher than normal, "I may be a jinx, and I may be a loser, and I may be just a small-time reporter who'll never even get a whiff of a Pulitzer…but _this_ is too much! _This_ is outrageous, and this is one thing I _can_ do something about!"

"Okay," she said, seeing he was determined. "And what are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet! Maybe…maybe deliver a story about a scuzzy tabloid reporter getting whomped by the combined weight of _every_ copy of every horrible story he's ever done!" He stopped a moment, took her hand in his, and kissed it. "I can't do anything about being jinxed. I _can_ give Scribbler some of what he deserves!" He suddenly reached up, pulled her down to him, and kissed her lips. "I love you!" He ran out. From the end of the hall, he yelled back, "Oh – and I am _never_ taking this bracelet off! Never!" The elevator _dinged_ , and closed, and then the outer hall was silent.

Gina stared after him, dumbfounded. Rhonda looked from her to the empty hall. "Wow," she said. "Did he just…?"

"Yeah," Gina breathed, feeling shocked herself. "Yeah, he did."

Rhonda stood there with her, silent a long moment. Finally she said, "Uh…good."

"Yeah," Gina said, and started to smile. Rhonda reached up and patted her on the leg. They looked at one another.

"So…got any breakfast?"

"Sure. Do you drink coffee?"

"What kind? Oooh, I smell it. Vanilla cinnamon?"

"Yes it is. Black?"

"I'll take some fake sweetener, if you got any. A girl's gotta watch her figure."

The apartment door closed gently.


	24. Chapter 24

Beaker trudged glumly through the gray drizzle which had cast a dull pallor over the morning, hunched over to try to keep the paper bag with the toasted bagels from getting wet. Naturally, it had been dry when he'd set out to fetch breakfast for himself and Bunsen, so he hadn't taken an umbrella; to top it off, Bunsen hadn't been able to find his wallet, so Beaker had to spring for the food. Grumbling meeps, he came up the back stairs, squealing and jumping under the theatre's eaves to avoid the sudden onrush of rain as the drizzle became a downpour. Shaking his head, he went inside, unhappy with the weird smell of burnt metal, jumbled spices, and now, in addition, cleaning fluid emanating from the ruined kitchen as he walked through the green room. Beau was doing his best to scrub the walls and floor, but clearly it was going to take a lot of work before the area was useable again. Sighing, Beaker carried breakfast into the lab, finding to his annoyance that Bunsen had completely forgotten he'd promised to make them both some Tang. Instead, Honeydew was tinkering with the tornadoterminal reverse energy field manifestational generator. He barely glanced up when Beaker entered.

"Oh good, you're back. Hold this for me?" He indicated a new geegaw sticking out next to the hubcap array. Sighing again, Beaker put his finger on the thing, but as soon as Bunsen's wrench touched it, a spark went through Beaker's finger.

"Meep!" He jerked away. Bunsen huffed in frustration.

"Beaker! Hold it _still!_ If that's not tightened down properly, someone could get hurt! Where have you been?"

Astonished, Beaker hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the bagels sitting on another desk. "Mee meep me mee mee; mee meep me memee me…"

"Breakfast? No, we don't have time for that right now, Beakie. I realized something a little while ago while you were out amusing yourself with _breakfast,"_ Bunsen said, causing Beaker to look from him to the bagels, nicely filled with cream cheese and toasted and now slowly cooling off in the chilly lab – bagels which Honeydew had specifically requested. "Remember when we first noticed the psychokinetic energy disturbances? They seemed to represent two _different_ energy signatures, although close together to one another on the Mumford Scale. However, in going back over all our data so far, since that extraordinarily high spike a few days ago that set off the alarm, the energy signature has been completely different – and much, much higher!"

Beaker tried again to point out the bagels to Bunsen. With the kitchen wrecked, they didn't have a safe way to reheat the tasty breads. Oblivious, Honeydew walked around the table, patting the psychokinetic field generator. "I've reconfigured this bad boy to set up a counteractive field to the one the Newsman was giving off! All we need to do is get him to stand within its range and turn it on!"

"Erm…mee meep?"

Bunsen's proud smile turned to a quizzical frown. "How? Well, I assume we'll just have to ask him."

"Mee meep mews me mee Mermit," Beaker pointed out.

"Hmm…I see what you mean. That may indeed be an obstacle," Bunsen said. "Are you sure he's banned?"

"Mee mee."

"Suspended," Bunsen nodded. "I see! Well…perhaps we can find him and persuade him to come in anyway. After all…tsst, stt, stt…what Kermit doesn't know, in this case, may very well end up _not_ hurting him! If, of course, my calculations are correct…"

Beaker sighed, giving up on talking Bunsen out of it. As Bunsen stared and tinkered and _hmmmed_ to himself around the massive generator, Beaker opened the breakfast bag, took out a bagel, and had a large bite. He chewed happily, relaxing somewhat. Suddenly Bunsen smacked the desk with his hand, making Beaker jump and spit out a bit of bagel. "That's _it! That's_ the missing piece of the equation!"

Beaker stared at him, mouth hanging open, cream cheese on his nose.

Bunsen grabbed his shoulders a moment, beaming. "Beaker! It _was_ two energy fields! You said the Newsman and his girlfriend were kissing at the store, right before the tremor occurred?" Startled, Beaker nodded. "Oh! Oh! We need to get a psychokinetic reading from _her!_ Beaker! What if it's not a switched-on indicator gene at all that's causing this alarming jump in energy generation from the Newsman? What if it's his…er…proximity to this young woman?"

Beaker started back. "Mee mee mee mippy-mippy mee mee meep?"

"Beaker! That's naughty!" Bunsen blushed. Beaker shrugged, irritated. _He_ thought it was a viable theory… "No, I mean, what if _she_ also has some sort of psychokinetic residual field around her? The convergence of two similar fields would be like pouring raw cesium into a fish tank!"

"Meep!" Beaker gulped, cringing.

"Has she been _here_ when we've measured those energy spikes?"

Beaker shrugged, clueless. "Me meep mee me?"

"We must find out at once! Beaker, find out where she lives!" Hurriedly Bunsen dug through the lab cupboards, pulling out an old-fashioned folding aluminum colander, a walkie-talkie set, and the psychokinetic energy detector (mk. III). He fussed through drawers. "I _know_ I had some duct tape around here some—ah! And _so,_ and _thus,_ and…voila!" He fitted the colander over Beaker's head, ignoring his colleague's vehement protests. A walkie-talkie stuck up from the back of it, the floppy antenna curling over Beaker's flame of hair, wiring running from the metal to the psychokinetic energy detector. "There we go! Rather retro-tech clever, if I do say so myself, tsst-stt!"

Beaker stared up at the metal leaves spiraling around his head, and sighed.

Bunsen ran to the nearest mainframe, adjusting and twiddling and typing. "There! I don't think the signal will penetrate past ten blocks, but hopefully she lives within that radius. Get on out there, Beakie, and find that young woman! We need her data to configure the psychokinetic reverse field generator properly!"

Beaker looked back at his half-eaten bagel, heaved a heavy sigh, and trudged out of the lab. Behind him, a beaming Bunsen suddenly noticed the food.

"Oh, goodness me…that smells wonderful!" Happily, Honeydew picked up the untouched bagel and began chewing it. His face fell, and he looked at it in disappointment. "Oh dear…it's gone cold…honestly, doesn't he know toasted bagels with cream cheese are best when they're still nice and warm?"

"Thanks for the coffee," Rhonda said. "I'm gonna have to get me one of those French presses."

"It puts drip-makers to shame," Gina agreed, holding open the door for the petite rat. "Thanks again for letting us know about Scribbler."

Rhonda paused in the doorway. "Is your guy gonna be okay?"

Gina shrugged. "I hope so. I think I have enough for bail money…"

"Ha! With him, jail is probably the least of your worries." She twitched her whiskers at Gina uncertainly. "I hope things turn out okay for you both."

"Thank you," Gina said. "I haven't told Newsie, but I'm thinking of giving that frog boss of his a piece of my mind. That was an awful thing he did last night. The Muppet Theatre is all Newsie has."

"Doesn't he have you?"

Gina stopped, then smiled. "Yes. He certainly does." Rhonda smiled back, then waved and scampered down the hall for the elevator.

Shutting the door quietly, Gina looked around the apartment. Granted, this hack Scribbler had a beatdown coming, by all accounts; but she hoped Newsie wouldn't get himself in trouble over it. She sighed. She stood a moment in the bedroom, looking at his discarded robe, then picked it up and started to fondle it. She stopped. She sniffed. "Oo-kay," she muttered. "Laundry. That's what I can do for him." She pulled his clothing from her laundry hamper, wondering where he bought his sports coats; he seemed to have very few of them. Besides the brown plaid one he'd run out in, there were two other browns and the newer blue-green. Even his pj's and shorts had a similarity to them, polka dots or stripes on white. Shaking her head, smiling, Gina pulled on some sweats, gathered all of Newsie's laundry, found her change-purse and keys, and left the apartment.

As she stepped into the hallway, old Mrs Jornegal stopped her. "Gina! Gina, dear, could you watch Mitzi again this weekend? My sister's not doing so well, and I need to drive her to the doctor on Saturday."

"Uh, sure, Mrs Jornegal. I'm sorry to hear that. Just Saturday?"

"Yes; I think that would be all, thank you, dear." As Gina began to move off, the old lady put a tentative hand on her arm. "Gina, I don't mean to pry, but…are those a man's clothes?"

Gina felt her face reddening. "Uh…yes."

The old lady chuckled. "Oh, well then! Good for you, dear!" She nodded at the sports coats. "He has good taste! What does he do for a living?"

"He's a reporter. He, uh…has a news show."

"Oooh, how exciting!" Mrs Jornegal giggled. Gina smiled tolerantly, just wanting to get the laundry started. "Well, good for you both!" She waggled her fingers in a wave, and Gina nodded, smiled, and headed for the elevator. "Oh…be careful if you're going to the basement! Some of those washers haven't been working right with all the power outages!"

Frowning, Gina stopped, turning back. "What power outages?"

"Why, the ones all over the building the past few days! I expect you were out at your theatre when they happened," Mrs Jornegal said. "My television kept switching itself off and on all last night! I've complained to ConEd _and_ the maintenance supervisor, and they've said they can't find a short anywhere! Can you _believe_ it?" She shook her head. "And I heard that Monday night, the elevator went to the top of the building and stayed there! No one could make it come down! Isn't that the strangest thing you've ever heard?"

"That…that is strange," Gina agreed. "Um. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Certainly, dear. You have a good day, now."

As she pushed the call button for the elevator, Gina pondered the information. What power outages? There'd been nothing, not even a blinking clock, in her apartment to indicate anything of the sort. Well, it was an old building, and she was willing to bet some of the wiring wasn't up to code. Shrugging, Gina stepped into the empty car as it arrived and pushed the button for the basement level.

The rain didn't deter the Newsman in the least. When he was finally able to break out of the elevator (after being trapped behind an enormous hippo-lady who got in just as the elevator had reached the lobby and pinned him behind her, oblivious as she rode up and down a few times, unable to recall which floor it was she wanted and deaf to his sputtered protests), he burst at a dead run through the front door and down the steps. He nearly tripped at the bottom, recovered, and paused only a second to get his bearings before heading in the direction of the Muppet Theatre four blocks away.

That hack! That liar! That – that – utter, vicious, scrawny little spaghetti-head! Newsie's jaw was grimly set as he ran, thinking ahead to what he might do when he caught up to Scribbler. Violent rampage? Oh, he'd show that cackling prevaricator a thing or two about violent rampages! Shivering in anger, Newsie ignored the large wet splashes coming down on him, even on his glasses, his shoes pounding along the sidewalk.

He'd had it. Bad enough his Muppet colleagues thought he had caused the recent disasters. Bad enough Kermit had suspended him – likely without pay. Newsie was…was…well, positively _darned_ if he'd stand for Scribbler abusing him as well! Gina thought he was worth something…and that gave him strength, and courage, and a righteous anger as he huffed along.

This was going to be, as Kazagger might've said, a smackdown for the ages.

Beaker was having a hard time dodging walls of water kicked up by passing cars as he hurried across an intersection. Squealing frantically, he jumped for the curb right as a cab swerved past, its horn honking angrily. There wasn't any shelter at this particular crossing, so he hurried along to the next awning before rechecking the psychokinetic field detector. There was a very strong signal coming from just ahead. Beaker walked toward it under the awning, then ran through the downpour to the next storefront a few feet away. Bunsen's voice crackled over the walkie-talkie: "Beaker, hurry! If those energy fields have already combined, we could be inches away from absolute catastrophe!"

Beaker started to meep back something tart about being soaked and cold when suddenly the sensor beeped madly. Beaker took a step back, closer to the building, a split second before the Newsman raced around the corner in front of him, running past without even seeing Beaker, a deep scowl on his face, intent on something else. Beaker stared after him, then checked the field detector. Sure enough, the strongest signal was tracking the Newsman as he hustled back the way Beaker had just come…but a second beep showed up on the screen. Confused, Beaker tapped the sensor, rechecked it, tapped it again harder, and jumped a foot when Bunsen yelled over the com: "That's it! That's it! Two signals! Beaker, who just went by you?"

"Mee Mewsmeep," Beaker stammered, looking quickly back and forth between the rapidly vanishing Newsman and the other signal somewhere ahead.

"Then the other signal must be his lady friend! Beaker, go find her!"

Beaker tried to warn Bunsen what he'd just witnessed; he'd never seen the Newsman look so angry, or in such a hurry. "Mee Mewsmeep me meeme meep…"

"Beaker, we already _know_ he's giving off psychokinetic energy! We need to discover whether _she_ is as well! Go find that other signal's source!"

Sighing, Beaker turned, tracking the other blip on the screen, trying to avoid becoming completely soaked, anxious about the possibility of an electrical shock again. So far, the array on his head seemed to be holding up, but he didn't rate his safety chances very highly. Running from shelter to shelter, he came within another block to an older apartment building among a row of Art Deco-era skyscrapers. The signal seemed to be coming from somewhere inside it. He judged the distance to it across open, wet concrete, took a deep breath, and hustled. _"Meep meep meep meep meep –meeeeep!"_ He was almost to the front awning over the top stairs of the building when the colander on his head sparked and the com made staticky noises. Shrieking, Beaker threw it off his head, ripping loose the connection to the field detector. It sparked in the rain; the walkie-talkie briefly caught fire but was then doused by the downpour. Sighing in relief at his near-miss, Beaker trotted up the rest of the steps. The field detector, protected in his hands from most of the wetness, was still working. Nodding to himself, Beaker reported, "Mee meep mee mee; meep meep." There was no response. Startled, Beaker realized he'd lost the com link to the lab. Bunsen couldn't hear him.

Trembling, he looked at the signal strength on the field detector. It looked every bit as strong as the one the Newsman had been projecting as he ran past. Who knew how dangerous it might be?

And Beaker was now completely alone.

Shivering, he opened the door to the lobby and walked very, very slowly toward the elevator, the beeping of the psychokinetic energy sensor the loudest sound in the quiet lobby. He looked at the indicator, adjusting the screen readout to show him distances in more detail; the signal seemed to be on the ninth floor. He punched the elevator button and waited. The signal beeped; glancing at the sensor, he realized in fright it was moving. It was…coming down!

Gasping, Beaker looked around, spotting a large frondy plant nearby. He hurriedly wedged himself behind it, his orange hair almost a match in color for the flowers the plant bore on long stems, his white lab coat blending in with the wallpaper behind it. He froze in place. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Gina stood in the car, cradling a bundle of laundry. She looked into the lobby, waited, shrugged, and pressed a button inside the car. The doors shut, and the elevator continued down.

Beaker let out a long sigh of relief. He checked the field detector. Sure enough, the main signal was now below him, and moving, probably in the basement. However, he noticed residual energy signatures still emanating from above. What if…what if he could confirm the energy was around the Newsman's girlfriend without actually having to confront her? That sounded a great deal safer. Beaker looked around, saw an unmarked door, and tried the knob. It revealed a dim stairwell, old concrete steps going up and up into the building. Relieved, Beaker nodded to himself, and steeling his muscles for a long climb, started upward.

Newsie slowed as he approached the Muppet Theatre, realizing the rain hadn't let up in the least. Unlikely Scribbler would be hanging around the unprotected alley in this storm. He veered off, going around to the front of the theatre, stopping beneath the main entrance overhang to catch his breath and try to wipe off his glasses. Now, if he were a lazy, unprincipled hack of a reporter, where would he be? Newsie doubted Scribbler had gone far from the theatre; he'd want to see as much as he could of the damage his story had caused. Looking around, squinting through the gray sheets of water, Newsie thought he saw a familiar shape in the greasy spoon across the street. As he stared, the person looked up when a waitress tossed something on the table, and Newsie saw an unmistakable pair of round shades.

 _Gotcha._

Shaking in angry anticipation, he watched the traffic, spotted an opening, and broke into a run across the street.

On the ninth floor, Beaker cautiously emerged from the stairwell, panting as quietly as he could. No one seemed to be in the hallway. Soft light came from several tasteful brass sconces, and more frondy plants flanked the elevator doors. Beaker checked the field detector. Yes…the residual signal was definitely here. He crept along the hallway, following the beeps, until they grew louder in front of one particular door. Excited, he stopped, staring at it. This was it! He'd found it!

He suddenly realized he had no idea what to do next.

Why wasn't Bunsen here? Irritating though he was, he did often come up with a plan on the spur of the moment. Beaker stared at the door, scratching his head. Shrugging, he tried the knob.

The door swung open.

Beaker stared at it, then quickly looked up and down the hall. No one around. Pushing the door open gently, he poked his head inside. "Mee…meep meep?" he called softly, but no one answered. Perhaps the Newsman's girlfriend had neglected to lock the door. Amazed at his luck, Beaker stepped inside, carefully shutting the door behind him. He looked around at the swirling, sensuous posters framed on the walls, the pale golden-yellow walls nicely broken up by the colorful prints and antique furniture. "Mee mee," he murmured to himself, staring at everything. He cautiously touched one of the large translucent glass balls hanging in front of the broad windows, watching it swing gently. Remembering he was supposed to be gathering data, he quickly held up the field detector, checking the energy levels. The whole apartment seemed suffused with high psychokinetic energy! He walked slowly through the rooms, marveling at how nice the place was, continually rechecking the screen. The highest levels seemed to reside in the bedroom.

Beaker scanned everything in the room, noting the biggest spike shot up when he pointed the detector at the bed. "Mee _meeep_ mippy-mippy," he muttered, somewhat pleased his own theory seemed to be correct, no matter how naughty Bunsen thought it was. However, there was another, smaller spike when he turned around, coming off the tall dresser. Beaker gaped at the ritualistic-looking arrangement of red candles and an incense burner in front of a small cabinet with arched doors. He opened the little doors, gasping at what he beheld.

A tiny doll which looked just like the Newsman stood inside the altar cabinet. The figure held an umbrella over its head, and there was a red Valentine's heart stuck on its chest…and a tiny ring of reddish material looped over its other arm. With shaking fingers, Beaker pulled the tiny ring out and looked closely at it. It looked like…hair. Woven hair. Woven red-brown hair. "Meep," he gulped.

What should he do? Was this the source of all the Newsman's recent troubles? Beaker scanned it; it was definitely giving off energy, though not as strongly as other things here. Maybe Bunsen would know. Beaker gulped again. It certainly looked like something bad. Making a quick decision, he scooped the figure out of the cabinet and tucked it in a pocket of his lab coat, shutting the cabinet doors. He backed away from it, looking around nervously at the shawl pinned to the wall behind the bed, the shelves of books, the ominous energy radiating off the bed on his screen. He left the room quickly, and was starting for the apartment door when he heard the doorknob click.

He froze. The doorknob turned. Squeaking in terror, he looked all around, saw the door to the bathroom, and ducked inside. He heard someone moving around in the apartment. Where could he hide? Behind the door? What if that was the mysterious Gypsy girl? Had she been casting a spell on the Newsman? What would she do if she caught Beaker here? Panicking, he saw the tub enclosure and hopped into it, drawing the shower curtain closed, trying frantically to move the metal rings along their track silently.

Gina paused in the living room, looking around. Everything seemed fine. Weird. Maybe she'd just forgot to check the lock when Mrs Jornegal had distracted her. Shrugging, she checked her cell phone. No calls. She sighed, hoping Newsie was all right. She opened the doors of the old Czech armoire which housed her electronics, turned on the TV, and flopped down on the sofa, flipping through channels. She knew she might have a long wait.

Fleet Scribbler didn't think to look up at first when the café door swung open, taking another bite of his dry BLT. Next thing he knew, three and a half feet of angry yellow and brown plaid was yanking him out of his seat, and a long prominent nose, hornrimmed specs, and a very deep glower were inches from his own smaller schnozz. Scribbler swallowed the piece of fatty bacon he'd been unsuccessfully chewing. "Uh…hi Newsie!" Scribbler said.

He was expecting the swing, and ducked.

Breaking loose of other people's handholds had become something of a specialty for the tabloid reporter, and within seconds he was free of the Newsman's grip and bolting out the door. He ran across the street without even looking, hearing car horns blaring all around him. He glanced back to see the Newsman held up by a passing taxi. Oh…heck. Amusing though this had been, he was in no great eagerness to find out just _how_ mad the unlucky newscaster was. Which way to go? The rain was coming down in buckets, and he'd only just got himself dry. Swiftly Scribbler decided to go where the Newsman would least expect him to. He darted straight inside the front door of the Muppet Theatre, a little surprised and then immediately contemptuous that they left it unlocked in the daytime. Were they really expecting patrons to drop by early for ticket purchases? As if!

The Newsman looked up from the traffic just in time to see the hack yanking open the theatre door and running inside. With a triumphant laugh, he threw himself across the street after him. He could catch Scribbler in there for sure. Gina had shown him passages he hadn't even known about before; there would be nowhere the detestable little liar could hide, and Newsie would catch him, and pound him into stringy little scraps, maybe even in front of his Muppet colleagues.

This was going to be perfect.


	25. Chapter 25

The lobby was empty. The Newsman looked around quickly: doors into the theatre, concession stand, information desk/souvenir case, restroom doors, staircase to the balcony. Which way had Scribbler chosen? From behind the info desk, a steady snoring arose. Looking over the top of it, Newsie saw an old man with a circle of white hair and tiny round glasses asleep with his head on the desk. He shook the man by the shoulder roughly. "What? What?" the oldster snapped, peering up with a frown.

"Did you see which way Scribbler went?"

"Do we need a defibulator pen?" the man repeated, puzzled.

"What?"

"What?"

Exasperated, Newsie let him go. "Never mind!" He checked quickly behind the concession counter, but no one was there. Figuring the straightest route was the fastest, he flung open one of the auditorium doors and ran down the left-side aisle, looking all around. The house seemed empty, and he didn't see anyone onstage. Maybe Scribbler was as fast as his name, and had already legged it backstage. Newsie headed through the house seats and boosted himself up onto the lip of the orchestra pit, and from there onto the stage. He was about to head into the wing when some impulse, some odd feeling, made him pause. Slowly he turned, and caught a tiny movement in his usually-unreliable peripheral vision. Whirling to confront it, he saw gray hair ducking beneath the edge of the balcony, high up. _"Scribbler!"_ Newsie shouted.

Half an unpleasantly familiar face popped up from behind the balcony rail, and eye contact was made. "You hack! You libeler!" Newsie shouted.

Scribbler muttered a curse to himself, breaking from his blown cover and heading for the balcony door. Newsie jumped from the stage, recovered his footing fast, and bolted up the aisle for the lobby. The two of them nearly ran head-on into each other at the bottom of the balcony stairs. Startled, Newsie made a grab for the hack. Scribbler dodged, whirling on the spot and leaping back up the stairs. Where did he think he was going? There wasn't another exit! In growing triumph, Newsie stomped up the stairs hot on Scribbler's heels. Scribbler climbed onto the armrests of the nearest seats, jumping to the next one down, and the next. Newsie went after him, pacing him along the end aisle.

At the edge of the balcony, Scribbler stopped, looking over the rail. It was quite a distance. He looked back at the Newsman, who had paused to catch his breath, confident he'd trapped Scribbler. _Rats…I hate heights,_ Scribbler thought. He boosted himself over the rail, hanging onto it, his shoes barely finding purchase on the tiny ledge. "Go on, jump," Newsie urged, grinning at him. "I'll find the trash bag to scoop you into. It'll be the best _scoop_ you've ever had!" As he laughed at his own terrible joke, Scribbler smirked at him.

"Nice seein' ya," Scribbler said with a jaunty salute, and then vanished below the railing.

Startled, Newsie ran to the railing and looked over. Scribbler was hanging onto one of the lights! The scrawny man grunted, finding a foothold, working himself sideways over to a small ladder of lighting instruments. Newsie debated trying to follow; he wasn't sure the creaking metal poles Scribbler was even now bending a bit would hold his somewhat greater weight. Deciding it would be safer to run down and catch him in the lower house, Newsie turned and took off running up the balcony aisle.

Scribbler glanced up, hearing the Newsman's footsteps hurrying away. "Ha! Loser," he muttered, grinning. Quickly he swung himself up again, making for the back of the balcony. He'd spotted something the Newsman clearly didn't know about: the old trapdoor at the rear of the balcony ceiling which led into the front-of-house bays and lighting storage. He'd hidden there a time or two back in the day. Feeling invigorated by the chase, he jumped up on the arms of the right rearmost seat, able from that height to just reach the handle of the trapdoor and yank on it with his whole weight. The trapdoor swung down, and quickly Scribbler clambered up into it. Once inside, he reclosed it firmly, then sat panting a moment. Fun though it was, he was getting too old for this stuff. Quietly, slowly (no need for hurry or noise now, he'd never be found), Scribbler moved through the ranks of dusty lighting instruments which looked to have sat rusting for decades, heading for the second front-of-house bay. He realized suddenly he ought to use this opportunity; why skulk around in the lighting bays when he could get above the stage and listen in? Clearly his story had caused a furor. Why not spend the afternoon enjoying it?

Pleased with this idea, Scribbler padded along the narrow wooden walkway, passing the first bay without a glance, remembering the route back to the loading rail. He might comfortably wait there, or even climb farther up to the creaky old grid of two-by-twelve boards and spy on the whole stage. The possibilities were open, and he felt sure the chicken-livered Newsgeek wouldn't dare climb up after him. _That_ guy had no idea what it really took to get a great story!

Newsie emerged in the house, glaring around quickly. There was no sign of Scribbler. Immediately he looked into the balcony, seeing no one. Good grief – how long did that sniveling coward expect to drag out this cat-and-mouse run? Irritated, Newsie backed up to the stage along an aisle, his gaze darting in every direction, not seeing any sign of his quarry. Again he climbed onto the stage itself, where he could see the majority of the balcony seats, but although he paced back and forth, squinting up into the dim tier and the box nearer the stage, he couldn't find Scribbler anywhere.

Frustrated, Newsie stood and considered the timing. There was _no_ way the hack could've got by him; he'd have caught at least a glimpse if Scribbler had made it to the stage, or if he'd gone behind him into the lobby somehow. Newsie had made sure to prop open the door as he entered the house so there would be no unseen escape by backtracking through the balcony for the weaselly little liar. Where on earth could he be hiding?

He heard unfamiliar voices behind him, and suddenly remembered he wasn't supposed to be here. He'd been suspended. Shame colored his cheeks. Well, it wasn't as though he'd come to hang around in the hope Kermit would forgive him! He had legitimate business here at the moment! Nodding to himself, he looked around. Perhaps someone else had seen Scribbler. Moving center stage, he kept a nervous eye on the balcony and the house, and waited for whomever was just offstage to get close enough for him to see.

Nothing seemed to be on TV but soaps, infomercials (she frowned as she lingered an extra second on a weird ad for a musically-based learning system called "Hooked on Muppaphonics," with some loud guy in a Flamenco shirt), talk shows, and news. Sighing, Gina left the channel on a local news show, rose and went to the kitchen to figure out what she could pack for a snack; bringing her own was always healthier than relying on the concessions at the Sosilly, and she'd only have a few minutes at intermission to refuel. Still, better a quick snack than going almost five hours from her call time for the pre-show lighting check to shutting it all down when the audience had left. She poked through the refrigerator, wondering suddenly if Newsie liked pizza, and if so what kind. Takeout from Sal's Pies on the way home might be a fun dinner for them both.

Beaker heard noises in the kitchen, and cautiously stepped out of the tub. The shower curtain rustled slightly as he moved, making him freeze, but apparently the owner of the apartment didn't hear it over the noise of the TV. "Watch out if you're heading into the city today! It's raining cats and dogs out there!" The light chuckles of the newspeople didn't seem very worried at all; Beaker wondered why he wasn't also hearing meows and barks and the falling thumps of animals hitting the forecaster. Perhaps that sort of thing didn't happen to non-Muppets. The kitchen noises continued, and Beaker crept out of the bathroom and along the short hallway. Just as he was gathering his courage to make a break for it, the chatter about traffic and upcoming social events in the city tonight changed tone. "And now for a more troubling story: breaking news in one city paper today shone an ugly spotlight on a local former reporter who seems to have finally snapped! This man, known only as Newsman, might be familiar to those of you who've lived here a long while."

Beaker flattened himself against the wall as Gina strode into the living room. She stopped in front of the armoire, staring at the TV, her back to Beaker…but blocking his escape to the door. Flustered, Beaker looked back the way he'd come, then peeked into the dining room. That dining table, though not very high, did seem large enough to hide under… Deciding forward was better than back, Beaker dropped to his hands and knees and crawled from the hall archway through a corner of the living room and successfully into the dining room, wedging his lanky body uncomfortably under the antique table next to the central pedestal. He patted one of its enormous clawed feet, thinking anxiously about monsters, but the table seemed immobile enough. Breathing hard, he tried to be silent.

Gina stared in shock at the images on the screen: as the anchor's voice continued, a montage of gruelingly awkward shots of the Newsman flew across. Newsie being eaten by his own desk. A ton of weight dropping from the ceiling on him. A falling cow hitting him from above. Newsie suddenly exploding (Gina flinched badly at that one). A piano crashing onto his desk. Attacked by angry sheep. Attacked by a rampaging sledgehammer. Barometers battering his head. Turned suddenly into cheese. "This so-called Newsman, a former employee of our rival station KRAK, has suffered humiliations of the bizarre kind for decades while delivering completely unfounded reports on undocumented events. It seems he may have finally snapped. A report this morning states the Newsman was responsible for the explosion which disrupted the show at the Muppet Theatre last night. Inside sources claim the allegedly enraged reporter then went on a rampage in the theatre until authorities dragged him out of the building." Gina shook her head, choking in protest, unable for a moment to even yell half the things running through her mind. The news anchor, a smiling younger man, shook his head in mock disbelief as the camera returned to him. "What set him off? No one seems to know. We sent a reporter down to the theatre earlier, but we were unable to get a clear statement from _anyone_ there. Our sources inside the police department say no one fitting the Newsman's description is in custody; his whereabouts are currently unknown."

 _"_ _Are you KIDDING me?"_ Gina shrieked. Beaker cowered.

"Wow, Brad. Did you say he used to work for KRAK?" asked the sports guy sitting next to the anchor at the long curved desk.

"That's right, Brent. Maybe they fired him because they suspected he was a loose cannon with a lit fuse," the anchor responded, smiling.

"Grrrrrraaaaahhh!" Furious, Gina threw the remote at the TV. It bounced off the armoire instead. Her aim was bad when she was angry.

"Well, stay tuned! We'll be back with the three-day forecast when we return to the News at Noon, here on Fox affiliate KRAS!"

"I don't _believe_ this!" Gina yelled, storming into the bedroom. "Those sons of-!"

Beaker flinched, eyes wide, at the sounds of heavy cursing coming from down the hall. Suddenly he realized this might be his chance at escape, and hurried forward – forgetting to duck. The overhanging lip of the table bonked his forehead, and he flopped to the floor a moment, dazed. He meeped and scrabbled backwards as Gina came stomping out into the living room again; she was too furious to even notice him. Shutting off the TV, she paced the living room, looking out at the rain. "Oh, Newsie. What are they doing to you?" Turning, rubbing her chin in worry, she trudged back out of the room. Desperately, Beaker surged forward again, remembering to duck, and was just straightening up when Gina strode angrily back through the hall. With a terrified squeak, Beaker hit the floor, scrunching his whole body backwards under the table again. "I do _not_ believe this! What, am I supposed to conjure up protection from total _idiots_ now?" She stopped by the window again, glaring out. Beaker stared at her, frozen, waiting. Fuming, Gina turned again and left the room. This was it. He had to run! Beaker threw himself forward. The lip of the table banged his head. He meeped in pain, but then hurriedly scrambled across the floor, was mostly upright by the time his feet landed on the living room rug, and yanked open the front door as he heard noises behind him. He pulled the door shut, legging it for the elevator, where someone was inside and just starting to close the doors.

"Mee- _mee!"_ Beaker yelled, throwing himself at the elevator. The doors shut just as he reached it, clamping around his nose. _"Meeeep!"_ With an annoyed _tingtingting,_ the doors reopened, and a large hippo-lady stood glaring disapprovingly at Beaker. Shaking, he stepped into the car, feeling his nose throbbing painfully. He glanced back at the snooty lady, then with trembling fingers pushed the _door close_ button. He shuffled back a step to make sure his nose was unhurt this time. The elevator started down.

Gina kept pacing from the bedroom to the living room. She really, really hoped none of Newsie's colleagues at the Muppet Theatre saw this. She especially hoped _he_ wouldn't find out about it. It was obvious the unscrupulous station had taken their story from the unscrupulous tabloid reporter's piece this morning. Oh, she could certainly understand his wanting to go pound Scribbler. She'd a good mind to do some pounding of her own at this point. She wondered briefly how much Scribbler weighed; swinging him from the grid at the Muppet Theatre sounded like fun. Or hooking him into the lighting circuitry, so he'd be shocked every time the house lights came up, or something. Poor Newsie! Worried, Gina went back to the bedroom and stopped before her prayer altar. She took a moment to calm herself, so as not to send anything negative his way, thinking of his face when he'd said what he did before running out. She hadn't thought he would say it. Had she hoped he would, if she was gentle to him, if she did her best to make him happy? Yes…but hope is not certainty. The thought of it made her smile a little. He was priceless, and she was determined to keep him safe, even from this craziness.

She opened the little cabinet doors…and stared, stunned. The doll was missing! Had Newsie found it? He hadn't given her any indication he'd discovered the protective spell she'd cast with his likeness. Frantically she searched the bedroom, but there was no sign of the doll. _Oh, no, oh, no!_ Had someone broken in and taken it? She should've paid more attention when she'd come back in the apartment and felt like something had changed! If someone had the doll who knew what it was for, how to use it, they might try to hurt Newsie!

Trying not to panic, Gina unpinned the old shawl from the wall above her bed. Lifting it to her lips, she kissed it briefly, murmuring, "Grandmama Angie, please help me! If you can hear me, help me… Newsie's in trouble…he's in trouble, and I love him!" Wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, she grabbed her keys and an umbrella and ran from the apartment, pausing only a second to check the door lock this time before bolting for the elevator.

On the wet street, Beaker shivered as much from the scariness of what he'd just been through as much as the chill of the rain. He felt the weird little figure in his coat pocket, tucked the psychokinetic energy detector in the other, and kept running for the theatre. He had to warn Bunsen before anything worse happened. And with both the Newsman and the scary Gypsy girl giving off frighteningly high energy levels, who knew what catastrophe might come down on everyone's heads? Squealing at a near-miss by a swerving car on the slippery street, Beaker dashed through the traffic and down the sidewalk, worried less about getting soaked than about reaching the theatre before things got worse.

"A reporter? Yeah…there was a guy hanging around the back door earlier, right Bob?" one of the workmen remembered. Eagerly, Newsie looked at the other man. Both of the workmen from Fiama Construction, Remodeling, and Waste Disposal were short, with olive skin and black hair; Newsie couldn't tell them apart, especially in their identical yellow hardhats and blue overalls.

"Oh yeahhh…dat's right," the other nodded. "Yeah, good memory, Steve."

"Sure was. Yep." They kept nodding, staring blankly at the Newsman.

Frustrated, he pressed, "Well, did you see which way he went?"

"Oh, I dunno. He and that cameraguy sure ran when the rain hit!"

They both laughed. Eventually the laughter subsided, and they stood dumbly, blinking at him.

"Cameraguy?" Scribbler didn't have a cameraman! No station would hire that hack…well, maybe the jerks over at KRAS. They seemed to thrive on gossip and rumormongering almost as much as _The Daily Scandal._ "No, no; the man I'm looking for is about so high, with gray stringy hair and big round glasses!"

"Hey Steve, what color was that guy's hair?"

"Uh…I dunno…what was it…like the color of…bananas?"

"Uh…you mean green?" Bob tried.

"Green! Yep. Dat's right. Green."

"Wasn't stringy?"

"Nope, nope, nope."

"Nope, nope." They both shook identically dull heads at him.

Newsie tried to hold back a shout of complete exasperation. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to speak clearly: "Okay…if you _do_ see someone like I've described, could you tell me?"

"Yep, we can do dat."

"Sure can, Bob. Sure can."

"Yep." As the Newsman turned away from the nodding workers, one spoke up suddenly, "Uh…when do you want us to tell you?"

"As soon as you see him!" Newsie shouted.

"Oh," the other worker said, looking almost surprised. The two of them exchanged a glance.

"Hey Bob, you're late dere."

"Yep, guess I am, Steve! I sure am. Yep."

The Newsman stared from one of them to the other as they lapsed back into complacency. Finally he exploded, _"When did you see him?"_

"Hey, buddy, no need to yell," Bob-or-Steve said mildly.

"No need for yellin'," Steve-or-Bob agreed.

 _"_ _Where? Where IS he?"_

"Right up dere," one of the workers said, nodding behind Newsie.

"Yep. Looks gray from here."

The Newsman whirled, his head jerking up, seeing a surprised Scribbler ducking too late below the enclosure of the loading rail along the fly system. Choking back a curse, Newsie ran for the spiral stairs to the loading rail. Behind him, the workers scratched their heads.

"'Course, from down here, _everyting_ looks kinda gray…"

"You're right dere, Bob. You sure are. You sure know your colors, Bob."

"Hard to tell from here, ya know. Dat guy's hair might only _look_ gray. It might actually be…uh…uh…what's that color, you know, the color dat frog guy is?"

"Orange, Steve?"

"Orange! Dat's it. Might be orange. Hard to tell from here."

"It sure is, Steve. Sure is."

Scribbler hadn't expected the Newsman to actually pursue him at this height. He climbed the ladder to the front-of-house bays, ducking as he ran along the passage back to the trapdoor. Wow, the yellow geek must _really_ be steamed! What a great follow-up this would make! He could picture the headline now: "CRAZED NEWSMAN ASSAULTS STAR REPORTER!" _Heh, heh, heh…_

The trapdoor wouldn't budge. Alarmed, Scribbler yanked on the handle. It had locked itself somehow when he'd come through it and now refused to open. He heard the Newsman's feet pounding along the boards of the first bay, searching for him. Trying to move silently, Scribbler dashed back the way he'd come, and suddenly the Newsman was right in front of him, swinging around the corner of the lighting bay into the access passage. "Gaaahhh!" Scribbler yelled, falling back and down. He threw himself to one side as the Newsman's right shoe came down hard where his hand had been a second ago. He kicked out and landed a blow with his own beat-up running shoe on Newsie's ankle, making Newsie hop in pain a moment. Scrambling to his feet, Scribbler hoofed it along the second lighting bay. He saw a small dark doorway at the end of it. Hastily he pulled himself through it as the Newsman came pounding after him again. It ran several claustrophobia-inducing feet before opening out to some kind of storage loft above the stage right wing; Scribbler could see all of backstage. Spotting a rope tied off to an unsteady-looking iron safety railing at the platform's edge, Scribbler quickly undid the knot holding it and took a flying leap.

Newsie leapt almost sideways through the small doorway, racing through the tiny passage, took two larger strides as the passage opened out and abruptly realized he'd run out of floor; the railing was crashing down even as he teetered on the edge. Waving his arms frantically, he tried to catch his balance; Scribbler swung across to the dressing-room stairs with a terrified howl, but landed more or less safely. Newsie grunted, trying to pull himself back, but his momentum was too great; down he fell.

 _"_ _Meeeeeeep—oof!"_

Dazed, Newsie and Beaker stared at one another, the rumpled Newsman on top of the flattened lab assistant. "Sorry," Newsie muttered awkwardly, then clambered to his feet and looked around for the hack reporter. He saw the clueless workmen trying to wedge a new stove through the back door; it completely blocked the entrance. He and Beaker were blocking the stage access. Gonzo and a few chickens were camped on the top of the stairs to the dressing-rooms, staring in surprise at him; they showed no sign of immediate disturbance. Scribbler hadn't tried to go past them. That only left one direction.

Panting, sore, Newsie got his feet moving again, heading for the lower stairs. The hack was somewhere below. This time he wasn't going to escape. Newsie would show them all he was man enough to take on a jerk like Scribbler and win. They wouldn't laugh at him after that! The thought quickening his heart, he skidded to a brief halt at the top of the stairs, grabbed the railing, and nearly slid down it.

Dr Honeydew looked up as every sensor in the lab spiked, alarms blaring. "Oh! Oh, dear!" Quickly he hurried from readout to readout. Beaker still wasn't back; Bunsen hoped his friend hadn't been hurt by the dangerous forces he'd been tracking. If that psychokinetic energy detector was destroyed, it would take him days to build another as good! Upset, Bunsen turned from his computer banks to see a wildly panting, skinny man in dirty, wet clothes dashing into the lab. "Oh! Excuse me! You aren't supposed to be in here!" Bunsen protested.

"Yeah, whatever, Doc," Scribbler said, looking around for someplace to hide.

The alarm screeched louder. With frightened meeps, Beaker ran in, waving his hands at Bunsen. Confused, Bunsen looked from Scribbler to Beaker and back. "Beaker! _What_ on earth is going on?"

"Mee mee meepme, mee mee, mee mee mee!" Beaker choked out.

"What? Voodoo? Beaker, slow down, you're not making any sense!"

Ignoring them both, Scribbler concluded there simply wasn't enough room in the crowded lab to hide himself, and checked the closet instead. It seemed to be a bedroom, with camp cots taking up most of the space.

"Meeme _meep,_ mee _Mewsmeep,_ mee mee me meeee!" Beaker shouted, producing the strange little doll from his pocket and showing it to Bunsen. Despite the racket of the alarms and the frantic gesturing Beaker was doing as he spoke, Bunsen calmly lifted his glasses, stared at the doll, flipped them down again, stared some more, then shook his head as he took the tiny image of the Newsman. He held it up, turning it this way and that, looking closely at the heart sticker and the tiny ring of hair around its arm.

"Beaker, there is _no_ such thing as a real voodoo doll, and at any rate, Miss Broucek said she was a Gypsy, not a witch doctor! I'm sure there's some logical explanation for this. Is the Newsman here? The psychokinetic energy alarms are going bananas!"

Just as Scribbler came out of the too-small bedroom, the Newsman stopped in the lab doorway. They stared at one another, both panting. "Ah- _ha!"_ Newsie yelled, throwing himself into the lab.

"Oh! Beaker, hold this!" Bunsen cried, tossing the doll to Beaker, who caught it like a hot potato, squealing and shaking his head. Frantically he tossed it to Scribbler. Scribbler, startled, hauled back his arm to throw it at Newsie…then saw what it was.

"Hey! Look what I got!" he shouted, holding the doll aloft. The Newsman froze, for a moment sure it was one of Crazy Harry's bombs or something equally deadly. Then he frowned, trying to see exactly what his nemesis held. Scribbler laughed, and waved the doll at Newsie. "Looky here! It's a little voodoo doll! And who do you think it is?" He thrust it at Newsie a second. "It looks like _you!"_

Shocked, Newsie stared at it. Reflexively he reached for it, but Scribbler yanked it away. Beaker and Bunsen cowered off to one side, watching the exchange, both with hands to their mouths in worry. "Heh heh heh! Wonder what I could do with this, huh? It sure does look just like you: same yellow streak, same silly glasses, same ugly jacket!"

"I do _not_ have a yellow streak!" Newsie growled, but the doll unnerved him. It did look scarily like him. Where the heck had Scribbler found a thing like that? Swallowing hard, he shot back, "And my nose is nowhere near that big!"

"Look in the mirror lately?" Scribbler cackled. He played with the doll's arms. Concerned, Newsie glanced down at his own, but he seemed unaffected. "Say, I wonder what would happen if I…stomped on this?" He made as if to throw it on the ground, and the Newsman cringed back. Ashamed of himself, Newsie scowled at Scribbler, and lunged for the hack. Scribbler danced behind the enormous pile of junk on the table in the middle of the room. "Or…boiled it in acid? Huh? Wanna try it, Newsie?"

"Erk!" Newsie choked, then immediately tried to go after Scribbler again. Bunsen waved his hands nervously.

"No, no, be careful! This is the psychokinetic energy specific gravity field reverse manifestational generator! I haven't recalibrated it for your new energy levels yet!"

"What?" Newsie demanded, shooting a look at Bunsen. What the heck? This was supposed to be a simple payback! Where did all this weirdness come from?

"Mee memergy mee mee meep me!" Beaker said, looking from Newsie to Bunsen. He dug the psychokinetic energy detector from his coat pocket and pressed it into Bunsen's hands. "Me meepmeep mippy-mippy, mee!"

"What?" Honeydew said, startled. "Oh my! Really?"

"So, Newsie! You gonna step aside and let me outta here, or am I gonna have to do something to this little mini-Newsie that you're really not gonna like?" Scribbler threatened, waggling the doll in his dirty hand.

"Over my dead body!" Newsie yelled without thinking.

"Well, okay," Scribbler laughed. He really had no idea if it would work, but watching the Newsman panic was half the fun. He lurched to one side, trying to get around the scientists, his elbow banging something on the odd-looking conglomeration of junk on the table. Instantly the sound of a small unlicensed nuclear accelerator powering up filled the room, a deep and growing subsonic hum making the racket of the alarms feel like nothing to everyone's eardrums.

"No! No! Not yet!" Honeydew shrieked.

"Meemeemeee!"

The floor began to shake. The readout screens cracked and splintered. The ceiling lamps swung crazily. The Newsman looked around, frightened, not knowing whether to run or try to seize Scribbler. Beaker, shrieking, dove under another desk. Bunsen backed away, his hands on his mouth in awe and terror. The generator shook wildly. The hubcap array blew completely off it with a burst of steam, nearly missing Scribbler. Deciding whatever was about to happen was not good, Scribbler broke for the door. Newsie lunged at him, missing, falling hard on the unstable floor. Pulling himself up by grabbing the table, he was about to run for the doorway when a huge tremor shook the whole room. Staggering, Newsie threw his arms out instinctively. One hand caught the generator.

"No, Newsman! Don't touch it!" Bunsen yelled, too late.

The room quieted. The shaking ceased. The generator began to hum steadily.

Bunsen and Newsie stared at one another. Beaker peeked out from under the desk. "Me meep?" he asked tentatively.

The alarms shut off. They all looked around. Slowly Newsie took his hand off the generator. Immediately the rumbling shook the room again, the alarms shrieked, and the lamp over the table blew out. Quickly Newsie grabbed the machine again, holding onto a long handle on one side. Everything calmed once more.

Newsie stared at it, his heart pounding, his breath coming hard through his open mouth. He could feel some kind of current flowing through him. It didn't hurt, but it was making him feel very anxious. He looked at Bunsen. "Wh-what now?" he demanded.

"Oh," Bunsen said, cautiously approaching and looking over the whole thing. Beaker got to his feet, hanging back. Bunsen shook his head. "Oh. Oh dear." The scientist turned to his assistant. "Ah, Beaker…"

"Mee?"

"Would you please go ask everyone to leave the building?"

Stunned, Beaker and Newsie stared wideyed at Honeydew. After a beat, Beaker ran screaming from the lab.


	26. Chapter 26

This was too good. Fleet Scribbler paused only a second at the top of the stairs; he heard a voice from the back door. "Have you guys considered turning it the _other_ way? Yeeesh!" Having no wish to deal with Kermit again, Scribbler hurried for the stage, intending to go out front and circle the building. Maybe he'd get a good view of the disaster when the building exploded. This was turning out to be a better day than he'd hoped! He glanced at the odd little doll, frowning. Perhaps he could use _this_ to his continuing advantage, too, if the Newsman thought it was a threat. Heck, maybe it was! Happily Scribbler shoved the thing in a pocket, buttoning the flap closed over it. He made it all the way to the front doors of the lobby before he and the young woman coming in spotted one another at the same moment.

 _Oh…crud._

Scribbler whirled, breaking into a run. He heard three thumps on the carpet behind him and suddenly he was swooped into the air by the collar of his jacket. "Aaacck! Hey, watch it!"

Gina glared at the wriggling worm of a reporter. "Well, well. _Just_ the guy I wanted to see!"

Scribbler kicked and swung his fists, but the grimly-smiling redhead simply held him with her arm extended all the way out. He looked down at the carpet of the lobby. "Geez! Are you crazy? Be careful! That's a big drop! What are you, like, five-four or something?"

"Five-six," Gina corrected. She began walking, still holding the protesting hack well above the floor. "You have caused a _lot_ of damage, you nasty little man. That story in your rag this morning was bad enough; did you have to feed it to the local news as well?"

"Sister, I don't know what you're talking about!" Scribbler gasped, trying to reach up and yank her fingers off his jacket. "No one but the _Scandal_ paid for my exclusive! I don't deal with TV news; they're too shady - _whoooaaaa!"_ He shrieked as she suddenly tossed him into the air and caught him by one ankle as he came down, swinging him upside-down so fast he gagged. "Blarrrgh!"

"If you puke on me, I will use your hair to wipe it off," she promised him, carrying him limply into the auditorium. "Where's Newsie?"

"Dunno who you mean."

"Don't give me that! I know he came over here after _you!_ You owe him one heck of an apology, you little weasel," Gina growled at him, striding down the aisle toward the stage. "And whatever he wants to do to you after that is _fine_ by me. I bet you'd make a great tetherball!"

"Erk," Scribbler choked, desperately trying to right himself; every time he struggled too hard, she swung him in a circle until he felt his stomach coming up. Hanging dizzy and ill, he gasped, "Hey…you don't really wanna do this…think how bad it'll look for your precious little nerd when I put into print how malicious and violent he went on me! Not to mention you! You look like you might have a _real_ job somewhere! You really want your boss to see your name smeared in connection with all this senseless violence?"

"Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me," Gina grinned at him. She dug a cell phone out of a pocket. "Say, 'Bleeeeaahh!'"

"What? Blleeeaaahhhh!" Scribbler choked as she shook him like a dog's chewtoy upside-down. He heard several snapshots clicking. When he could focus again, Gina smiled, waggling the phone.

"Horrible hack held helpless? There's an app for that." She tucked the phone away. "Oh, I can't _wait_ to show those around! All my work friends love a good practical joke, hate bad press and the people who write it, and boy, will they be happy when they find out you work for the same rag that panned our production of 'Where's Charley?' last year. _Especially_ my boss. He directed that one." She grinned at the hapless hack, pleased she'd remembered where she'd heard the name of the scurrilous paper before. "So go ahead. I don't care what you write."

Scribbler hung there, nauseous, temporarily at a loss as to how he might make this work in his favor. He groaned as Gina took a running leap at the stage, knocking his head against the lip of it as she jumped up. "Oh, dear, that wasn't very smart of me," she scolded herself. "Might've scratched the paint!" Hearing voices somewhere back in the wings, she headed past the masking curtains, happily hefting her prize before her.

The alarm shrieked. Newsie cringed. "C-could you at least turn that off?" he yelled over it. He was shaking all over, not daring to even let himself wonder what Bunsen's latest bizarre invention might do. He kept his hand on the generator, thinking it was a good thing he was a Muppet, or he might've been sweating so badly his hand would slip.

"Oh dear," Bunsen said, fussing over the broken readout screens. He held up the psychokinetic energy detector instead, noting the moving signal in the stage area above. "Oh, this is most unfortunate!"

"What is?"

"I believe your lady friend is here."

Newsie's heart brightened. "Gina? How is that bad?"

"I haven't had the chance to feed the new data into the reverse gravity field energy generator yet! It's already reacting oddly; introducing a new variable at this stage could produce wildly dangerous reactions!" Honeydew warned.

"You mean this thing isn't even doing what it's supposed to?"

"Regrettably, no," Honeydew sighed, yanking some wires out of a computer bank. With a groan, the alarm fell silent, and Newsie breathed a little easier without its panic added to his own. "I built this in the hopes of reversing the psychokinetic field you've been manifesting lately, Newsman. Yet it would seem, instead of it readjusting your energy back to your normal level, it's…well…" Honeydew shoved his weird little gadget right under Newsie's nose, pushing it up an inch uncomfortably. "Oh dear! It is! It's _magnifying_ it! The entire lab is now the focal point of an energy spike of immensely dangerous proportions!"

Newsie didn't understand half of that. He pushed the gadget away from his nose, shivering badly, glaring at the scientist. "Well, whatever you've done, undo it!" he shouted, making Honeydew step back.

"Oh dear," Bunsen murmured. He ran to the door to the lab, calling out, "Beaker! Beaker, come in here, I need you!"

Beaker was backstage, trying desperately to get the workmen to leave. He kept making shooing motions at them, meeping frantically, but they just stood next to a large stove wedged immovably in the rear exit doorway, staring in dull puzzlement at him. Gina stopped upon seeing the odd tableaux: meeping scientist, stuck kitchen appliance, two identical-twin Muppet workmen leaning on either side of the stove, gazing unmoved at Beaker, who then began jumping up and down and waving his hands. _"Meep! Mee mee mee meep mee mee!"_

"Uh…you okay, Beaker?" Gina asked. He whirled, jaw falling open at seeing her standing there.

He pointed uncertainly at her, then at the still-dangling Scribbler. "Mee meep…me memee mee?"

"Found him trying to sneak out the front. Have you seen Newsie?"

Swallowing hard, Beaker looked from her to the lower stairs and back. Realizing the potential danger, he suddenly shook his head, crossing his arms, trying to look casual. "Huh-uhh. Mee me mee, mee mee mee…" He started shaking all over. If that was what she was doing to that guy, what would she do when she discovered Beaker had taken her voodoo doll? "Ulp…"

Kermit let out an exasperated snort as he saw the workmen still stuck in the doorway. "You guys! Didn't you hear me? I said turn it the _other_ way!"

"We did, didn't we, Bob? We turned it."

"We sure did, Steve, sure did. It still don't fit, boss."

"It has more than two sides!" Kermit yelled at them, frustrated. Surprised, the workmen looked at the stove, then at each other. Shrugging, they tried to back it out of the door.

"Dat's a smart lizard, ain't it, Steve?"

"Got the smarts all right, Bob. Sure does."

"Eesh," Kermit groaned, then turned to see the others. "Gina? What are you doing h—is that Fleet Scribbler?"

"I take it you haven't seen the news today," Gina said, giving the hanging hack another shake when he tried to speak up.

"Blaargh!"

"Uh, no," Kermit replied, taken aback. "Scribbler, I thought I banned you years ago for hassling Piggy! What the hey are you doing back here?"

"Ooh, _banned_ too, huh? Does that mean he's officially trespassing, Mr Frog?" Gina asked gleefully.

"Well…yes. Yes it does. But that doesn't answer my question," Kermit said, curious.

"Well, this moron tried to launch a smear campaign on my Newsie today. Newsie came down here to find him. I came down to find Newsie. Caught this little snake in the grass instead."

"Uh, don't let the snakes hear you make that comparison," Kermit told her.

"Kermit, where is he? Have you seen him?"

"The Newsman? No, I haven't. Gina, are you aware I had to suspend him last night?"

"Yeah…about that. I think that's really unfair. Newsie didn't make any of that weird stuff happen," Gina argued, Scribbler for the moment forgotten. He moaned, but was too ill to even try to escape right now.

"Gina, I'm sorry; but he has a problem! I don't know _what_ it is, or even _how_ it is, but the Newsman's reports are backfiring on everyone else! I was being generous not taking the damage out of his salary!" Kermit shook his head. He could sympathize with her being upset, but at the same time, his first obligation was to the theatre and everyone in it. "Right now, he's downright dangerous! The best thing you can do for him is get him help of some kind."

"Meep," Beaker agreed. They both looked at him.

Returning her attention to Kermit, Gina shook her head, her brow set in a frown. "Kermit, I have to disagree. I don't know what's going on, but Newsie can't possibly be the cause of it! I put a protection charm on him to try and keep him safe from his news stories. You should be blaming whoever puts out those silly reports in the first place, not the messenger!"

Weakly, Scribbler held his head up. "So it's true? Newsie's curse is wrecking the theatre? Was there really a tornado in here?"

"Shut up!" Kermit and Gina both snapped at him.

"Me meep…" Beaker murmured; he could've sworn he faintly heard Bunsen calling just now. What _else_ was going to blow up today? Anxiously he looked toward the stairs.

"Look, Gina…I'm sorry. I really am. But the fact of the matter is, the Newsman's stories are hurting the rest of us, and I can't allow that!"

"But it's _not him!"_

The battens above the stage shook. Gonzo yelled out, "Hey, could you guys not run the bulldozer right now? I'm trying to practice out here!" A few clucks of agreement floated out of the air as well. Peering out, Gina and Kermit could see Gonzo and the chickens swinging from trapezes rigged from several of the otherwise empty scenery battens. Gonzo held a large accordion as he hung upside-down, looking far more at ease with the position than Scribbler.

"Gonzo, there isn't any bulldozer!" Kermit called out to him. Turning back to Gina, he continued, "I'm sorry. I can't let him back onstage until he solves whatever this crisis is. If you can help him with that –"

"I'm certainly _trying_ to!" she snapped at the frog. His mouth crumpled into a scowl.

Beaker looked from one of them to the other, shaking. Backing away, he headed for the stairs. "Meep-moh…"

Scribbler tried to right himself, one hand finding Gina's and pulling up. "Unh…uh… So Newsie's banned too? Heh heh… He really _is_ the loser I thought he was if even _you_ schmucks don't want him!"

"GrrrraaAAHH!" Gina snarled, swinging the hack in a wide circle and letting him go like a slingshot. Screaming, Scribbler flew in a long arc out onto the stage.

"Catch the bar!" Gonzo called, swinging one of the trapezes at him. Scribbler's head banged into it, abruptly arresting his progress. He crashed onto the stage. Gonzo looked down, wideyed. "Oops. Sorry."

The electrics overhead made jingling sounds as they shook. "Whoooaaa," Gonzo said, hanging on tight to his own trapeze. The chickens looked around worriedly. Everything onstage seemed to be shaking as if disturbed by the ridiculously low passage of a jet.

Gina yelled at Kermit, "He has a hard enough time as it is without his own co-workers blaming him for this mess! I spend every night in his company and you know what? _Nothing_ bad has happened to me! He is _not_ a jinx and I am tired of everyone saying that!"

Kermit recoiled, then, recovering, got in her face in return. "Oh, well that's just great! How nice for you! How'd _you_ like to have all your notes vanish suddenly when you were in the middle of a show? Or be swept up into a twister that shouldn't even exist? Piggy was scared for her life, and with good reason! How would you like it if someone _you_ loved was put in danger because of some ridiculous news story someone else read?"

"Those stupid stories put him in danger _every_ night!" Gina shouted back, leaning over, the two of them almost nose to nose and angry as they could get. "Maybe it's about time the universe dealt that kind of hand to all the rest of you! Now _you_ can see how _funny_ it is!"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Uh…guys?" Gonzo called uncertainly. The scenery hanging far above, out of sight, made ominous creaking noises. One of the other chickens squawked in fright when a piece of the large show-title board suddenly broke off and crashed onto the stage floor, the old plywood sign splintering. _"Guys!"_

In the lab, Newsie looked over nervously as Beaker came into the room so fast he nearly knocked into a desk. "Meeeep! Mee mee mee mee mee mee!"

"Oh, this is terrible!" Bunsen looked at the generator from all angles; Newsie kept holding it, the constant thrum of it going through his body making him quiver unpleasantly. "Beaker, quick! Check the reality differentiator module! We may still be able to—"

 _"_ _MEEEEEEP!"_ Beaker's eyes lit up the second he touched a screwdriver to the metal. Remembering his own experience, Newsie pulled up one foot and kicked the lab assistant as hard as he could. Staggering away, smoke coming off his head, Beaker clutched at one of the mainframes, gasping. He stared at Newsie. "Mee," he said weakly. Newsie nodded at him, then watched Honeydew trying to poke at the machine without actually touching it.

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear! It would seem we aren't able to get inside the generator! Beaker! I _told_ you I wasn't sure the gaskets were properly tightened down!" Bunsen scolded. Beaker stared at him, a shaking hand going to his open mouth. "Newsman! _You_ will have to open it up and reconfigure the differentiator!"

"Wh- _what?"_ Newsie trembled. "I don't know anything about this junk!"

"Be that as it may, you're the only one who can even touch it! Now here, take this screwdriver, and open up that panel there…"

The ceiling lights shook, swinging. Everyone looked up. "Mee mee meep, Meena meep!" Beaker explained hurriedly.

Newsie stared at him. "Did you just say Gina?"

"Uhhhh…" Beaker gulped, looking fearfully from him to Bunsen.

"He said she's here, in the theatre!" Bunsen informed him. Beaker started waving his hands _no_ , but Bunsen, oblivious, carried on. "Now, Newsman, if you would; that panel there, please…"

Newsie glanced upward, hearing yet another crash somewhere above. "Dr Honeydew, what happens if I can't…do whatever it is you need done to this thing?"

"Oh…" Bunsen adjusted his spectacles unhappily. "Well, there's a good chance we _will_ survive, if we can get out of the range of the generator quickly enough…"

"Meep!"

 _"_ _What?"_

"When you get inside the generator, you'll need to unhook the green wire, and switch it with the blue wire…oh, no, wait…or was it unhook the _fuchsia_ wire and swap it for the _puce_ one?"

A rumble shook the entire foundation, making the chemistry glassware on a nearby table jitter. Beaker tried to separate the delicate tubes knocking together. "Gina's up there, and this thing is going to explode?" Newsie demanded.

"Well," Bunsen frowned, "technically, I believe, it would actually _implode,_ dragging much of the immediate matter within a radius of a mile or so down with it…"

Desperately, Newsie unscrewed the panel, tossing it aside; Beaker ducked. Newsie gasped, shaking, as he saw the impossible tangle of wires inside. A veritable rainbow of circuitry started to come unstuffed, gently falling in loops out of the machine. "Honeydew!"

"There! That one! Pull out that one!" Bunsen directed, pointing at a greenish, slim wire. Newsie yanked it out, even as Bunsen checked himself, "Oh, wait! It _was_ the fuchsia one!"

The generator wheezed, shaking; the subsonic thrum of energy speeded up, making the chemistry glassware shatter with loud pops and tinkles. "Meep mee mee!" Beaker cried, ducking behind Bunsen, who threw up his arms in front of his face.

"Oh, no! Help!"

"You built it – _you_ fix it!" the Newsman cried, letting go of the handle and breaking for the door. "I need to find Gina!" He hurtled along the hallway, heading for the green room stairs.

Behind him, the two terrified scientists backed away from the shaking, glowing generator. Sparks flew out of its innards. Suddenly the noise dropped in tone. Bunsen, hands shaking, scanned it with the psychokinetic energy detector. "Beaker! It's…it's synchronized itself with the Newsman!"

"Me meep?" Beaker looked at it, startled. Wasn't that what they had _wanted_ it to do, so it could reverse the energy field?

"No, that's not a good thing! In his current emotional state…"

Gasping, Bunsen jumped away as a huge whirlpool opened up at his feet. The floor rapidly liquefied, sucking in one of the mainframes; it swirled around in a descending circle a few seconds, then winked out of existence. "Aaaaagh! Beaker! We did it! We reversed the tornado!"

"Meeeep?"

"It's the counter-manifestational tornadoterminal transsubstantialized psychokinetic energy ev- _look out Beaker!"_

 _"_ _Meeeeeeeeee-"_

Beaker had taken his eyes off the swirling, moving floor for a second to look at Bunsen. The edge of it caught him, sucking him instantly into its maw. He zoomed around and around, screaming, heading inward to the center of the whirlpool. Bunsen reached out a hand, but his assistant was already too far gone. With a tiny _meep?,_ Beaker was sucked down. Horrified, Bunsen fled the lab.

Scribbler came to on the hard stage floor, still nauseous and now sore all over. "Wh-why's everything all shaky?" he muttered, unable to get to his feet; it seemed as though the whole stage was shuddering. He assumed at first it must just be him, out of whack after that undeserved assault by that crazy redheaded chick, but then he saw the little hook-nosed freak and his poultry brigade clinging for dear life to a bunch of swinging bars above the stage floor as everything shook and danced. "What the heck?"

"You said you were looking for the Newsman?" Kermit shouted, looking at the shaking battens. "I'd say you found him!"

"According to you, it's his news reports that cause stuff like this!" Gina yelled back, holding onto the dressing-room stair rail. "How can he be causing it if there's no News Flash?"

"What else _could_ it be? You know, I didn't believe in jinxes before, but this is making me rethink my position!" Kermit snapped. He stared around worriedly. "Guys? A little help here?"

The twin workmen stared in stunned immobility at it all from their post at the still-stuck stove. "Hey, help!" Kermit yelled at them, staggering away from his desk helplessly; the floor seemed to be buckling. Suddenly he leaped, startled, landing several feet away. It felt like the floorboards had turned to sludge right under his feet! Looking back, he saw a whirlpool where that patch of floor had been, rapidly growing in size; it caught the corner of his desk. His notes flew into the air as the desk, its wood groaning, cracked and then broke in half, both halves swirling into the maelstrom like a battered ship going down. "Ack!"

"Gina!" Newsie came running up from the green room, saw her clinging to the stair rail to the dressing-rooms, and came straight for her. "We have to get out of here! Those crazy scientists set off some kind of explosive machine that's going to tear the place apart!"

"What?" Kermit yelled, shocked. He jumped aside as another whirlpool sucked at his flippers, the floor becoming watery and dark. "What the _hey?"_

Newsie grabbed Gina's hand; Gina simply scooped Kermit up onto her shoulder as they ran past, heading onstage. "Gonzo! Get out of here!" Newsie shouted. Then he saw Scribbler standing up slowly, still woozy. "Scribbler?"

A whirlpool opened up on the stage directly in front of Newsie and Gina, between them and Scribbler. They skidded to a halt, then turned toward the front of the stage; another pool sucked into existence straight ahead. "Go up!" Gina said, and tossed Kermit into the air toward one of the empty trapezes. Although the scenery was still swinging, it didn't seem as immediately deadly as the multiple maelstroms opening up everywhere they looked.

Kermit caught the bar and clung there, looking down in consternation. "What is going on here? _Bunsen!"_

"Kermit, stay away from the whirlpools!" Honeydew shouted, hurrying up, dodging more pools opening around him with hops and ungraceful staggers. "They're the reverse-manifestational form of the psychokinetic energy field tornado! They're being generated by the Newsman's agitation!"

 _"_ _What?"_ Kermit, Newsie, and Gina cried as one. Newsie pointed a shaking finger at Bunsen.

"N-no! This is _your_ crackpot machine! I didn't do anything to it! Scribbler started it!"

Everyone looked at Scribbler, who was standing in the tiny triangle of space between three separate whirlpools now, shaking and glancing from one to another rapidly. "Hey, you can't pin this one on _me!"_ he yelled over the disturbing sucking noises. "I heard those lab geeks saying this was all about some energy field thing _he's_ giving off!" He pointed at Newsie.

"I am _not_ giving off any weird energy field thing!"

"I'm afraid you are," Honeydew said. "We…we were trying to fix it for you…" He dabbed at his eyes with a hankie. "It…it got Beaker!"

Shocked, Kermit shuddered, then glared at Newsie. "Well whatever you're doing, stop doing it!"

Equally shocked, Newsie howled back, _"I'm not doing anything!"_

More floorboards splintered as another whirlpool started eating the orchestra pit. Kermit shuddered. "Bunsen, how do we stop it?" he shouted down.

"You better do it fast!" Gonzo called.

Rizzo trotted out, looking around. "Hey, did you guys know there's a stove being sucked into a whirl—oh my gawd what the heck!" He jumped back from the edge of another pool. The tiny strand Gina and Newsie stood on seemed to be one of the few islands left as the various sucking, swirling masses of water started to merge onstage. "Aaaahhh! I'll be good! I'll be good! I'll never talk to scummy insurance adjustors again!" Rizzo screeched, but the water slupped over his feet as he tried to run. Shrieking, the tiny rat was quickly sucked under. Gina turned her head, wincing; Newsie clung to her, horrified. Gonzo gasped; the chickens bawked in terror.

"Hey you, Red! Get me outta here!" Scribbler yelled.

"Why should I? You started this!" Gina yelled back angrily.

"'Cause if you don't, I'll throw this in!" Scribbler threatened, holding aloft the doll.

Gina's eyes widened. "You? _You_ took Newsie's protection doll? How the heck did you get into my apartment?"

"I didn't take anything! Those lab geeks had it!"

"P-protection doll?" Newsie stammered, looking up at Gina.

"I made it for you," she said guiltily. "I was trying to keep you safe, and to bring good things into your life! If I'd thought for a second anyone else might get hold of it… Newsie, I am so, so sorry! I never thought it would put you in danger!"

Stunned, he could only stare speechless at her. "Scribbler! You give that back this instant!" Gina yelled at the hack, who was waving the doll over one of the pools, dancing in place, trying not to let the water touch him.

"Get me outta here, and I'll let ya have it!"

"Kermit! Can you reach him?" Gina shouted. Kermit looked from her to Scribbler.

"Uh…maybe!" Gamely, Kermit tried to swing the trapeze back and forth. Scribbler started laughing, holding his arms up. Within a few swings Kermit was in range; grunting, shaking in fear, he tried to lower himself down, hanging by his back flippers from the bar.

"That's it! That's it, Kermit! You're doing _great!"_ Gonzo called. To Camilla he said, "Wow, who knew he could do acrobatics, huh?"

"Uh – uh – gotcha!" Kermit said, feeling his hands grab Scribbler's. Unfortunately, Scribbler was heavier than the frog.

 _"_ _Aaaaaaaaaaaa!"_ both of them shrieked, overbalancing. Scribbler pulled Kermit off the bar, and a dirty gray and bright green tumbling mass suddenly fell into the surging, roaring water. Kermit tried to swim, but the current was too strong.

 _"_ _Kermit!"_ Gina yelled.

 _"_ _Nooo!"_ Gonzo howled.

Newsie stood shaking, completely in shock, as his boss vanished below the roiling, circling surface of what had been the stage floor. Suddenly his whole body was jerked sideways into the water. He cried out. Gina grabbed for him, but immediately he was out of reach. She saw Scribbler's arm, still holding aloft the doll in his hand, being sucked under in the center of the pool. _"Newsie!"_

As he circled around the edge of the pool, fighting, gulping dirty water, wishing he'd taken those swim lessons at the Y when he was a boy after all, he heard Gina shouting his name again. Looking up, he saw a rope flying at him, and frantically grabbed for it. His fingers snagged it, and quickly he twined it around one hand, then the other, holding tight, gasping. It felt strange, too many open threads to be a rope; he realized, startled, it was some sort of scarf. The current pulled at him; Gina hauled on the other end of the makeshift rope. He clung to it, spitting out water, feeling as though he was being stretched like Gonzo in that silly pirate movie. _"Gina!"_

"Hold on!" she yelled back, desperately pulling in the shawl handhold by handhold. The spot where she stood onstage was the only bit of solid floor left. She didn't pause to question it; she just hauled in the lifeline with every ounce of strength she had. _Please, Grandmama Angie, please! I can't lose him! Please!_

The shawl dug into her palms, burning. She didn't stop, straining, going hand over hand steadily, slowly pulling him back to her against the current of the bizarre maelstrom. When at last she could reach him, she kept pulling, hoisting him free of the water, looping the shawl over her shoulders and clasping Newsie to her chest. "Don't let go," she panted, "Don't let go. Don't fall. Don't let go."

Breathless, Newsie held tight to her shoulders, the shawl still twined through his fingers. Gina was crying. "I love you," she said. "I'm sorry. I love you."

"I love you," he gasped, laying his head on her shoulder, "Don't be sorry. You saved me!"

"If it wasn't for that stupid protection doll…"

"You made it to keep me safe?"

"I _tried_ to. Some great job I did of it…"

"I love you," he said, heaving for breath, soaked, shivering, clinging to her. At least, if it sucked them in, they'd go down together, he reflected unhappily.

The whirlpool still raged, and there was nowhere they could go. From a rope hanging above the stage that he'd somehow managed to grab before the floor disappeared, Honeydew called out, "Newsman! This phenomenon is dependent on you! It's feeding off your subconscious fears!"

"What can I do?" Newsie cried, his voice shaking.

"I'm afraid, in order to shut the generator down, I'll need you to be unconscious," Bunsen shouted apologetically. "Miss, I don't suppose you can knock him out?"

"What? _No!"_

"But, Miss—"

"I am _not_ hurting him any more than he already _has_ been! Forget it! You built some kind of machine to do something to Newsie? You were responsible for his protection doll winding up here?"

"Well, technically, that part was Beaker –"

"No! No! _You_ figure it out!"

Suddenly an accordion thwacked down on top of Newsie's head. With a groan, he slumped. Gina's head jerked up to see Gonzo hanging from a trapeze. He gave as much of a shrug as he could while holding on with both arms. "Sorry."

Slowly, the roar lessened; the water withdrew. Gina watched it, worried, holding her unconscious Newsman tightly as the whirlpool sucked in on itself, going faster the smaller it became, until with a _ssssslllluurrrrrrrkkkk-POP_ it was gone.

However, so was the stage floor. Whole chunks of it were simply not there, bits of the support beams sticking out randomly, the center of the stage simply a large hole opening down into the tunnel, the lab, and a couple of storage rooms. Looking around slowly, Gina saw entire areas of the audience missing as well, a small chunk of the balcony gone, and some of the stage curtains ripped in half with the bottom sections vanished. Shaking, she didn't let go of Newsie, turning to look up at Honeydew hanging precariously over one of the open-floor areas. "What…what about Kermit? And Rizzo? And…anyone else?"

Bunsen nodded thoughtfully, "Well, if I can just get to the generator and uncouple the nuclear accelerator…"

"The what?"

"Er…the power source… I theorize any living organisms taken into the transdimensional psychokinetic manifestational event will simply pop back into this reality! They should be fine, now that the event itself has stopped!"

"Oh, good," Gonzo sighed. "Hurry up, Doc!"

Grunting, Honeydew tried to swing himself, but didn't quite have the muscle strength to reach the area over the lab. "Er…I seem to be…not quite…"

Angrily, Gina, holding onto Newsie, jumped from her island to a small patch at the edge of the wing which still looked intact. When Bunsen wobbled closer, she reached up with one hand and gave him a hard shove. "Whoooaa!" The scientist flew, his hands sliding off the rope, falling right into the half-destroyed lab where the generator sat untouched among the wreckage. He coughed, picking himself up shakily. "Oh, yes…that did it…"

"Did you get it shut down yet?" Gonzo asked after a few seconds.

With a strange popping sound, Muppets appeared in the undamaged section of the audience seats. Gonzo and Gina looked up eagerly, then recoiled. "Oh _wow,"_ Gonzo said. He looked at Camilla, who seemed equally flummoxed. "Now _there's_ something you don't see every day, even around here!"

A person about the size of Fleet Scribbler and wearing his jacket also had Beaker's red nose and orange hair. Beaker squeaked unhappily, looking at his green skinny flippers. The two workmen stared at each other, no longer identical: one had frog eyes, and one had rat whiskers. Rizzo complained, "Hey! Where'd everybody go? I can't see!" as he staggered around with Scribbler's enormous shades and the large flat feet of the workmen…both left feet, apparently.

Kermit looked around at everyone else, then down at himself with squinty, dark-browed eyes and long floppy pink arms. "Yeesh!"

"Hey, Dr Honeydew? Everyone's back…uh…but do we still have that Vend-a-Face thing in storage?" Gonzo called down.

"Er…yes, I believe so, why?" came the reply.

"I think we're gonna need it," Gonzo sighed.

Gina gently set Newsie down on the dressing-room stairs, which had come through unscathed except for a two-foot section gone from right at the top. She stroked his hair, carefully removing and wiping off his dirt-splashed glasses, and kissed his forehead. He muttered, stirring slowly. She sat down by him, holding him against her side with one arm, examining the rope burns the shawl had left on her palms. It hurt, but she was deeply relieved he was safe. She kissed him again as he blinked. "What…what hit me?" he mumbled.

"Ha," Gina said, thinking of their first actual meeting, though he hadn't seen her clearly then either. "That was Gonzo. Are you all right?"

"Sure," Newsie said dazedly. He stared unsteadily at the air in front of him. "Those are pretty colors…"

Clucking huffily, a flurry of chickens came through the wing, settling onto the other stairs. Gonzo followed after a minute, leading Rizzo gently. "You okay, buddy?" he asked the rat.

"Yeah, sure. I always wanted to have bug-eyes," Rizzo growled.

"We'll get you sorted out," Gonzo promised.

Unhappily, Scribbler followed the other unfortunates backstage, treading carefully around the multiple gaping holes. At least it looked like the Muppet Theatre wouldn't be hosting any performances anytime soon. And this entire adventure would make one heck of a story…of course, he'd have to leave out the part where he got his face swapped with someone else's…

The odd-looking Kermit stomped awkwardly up to Gina and Newsie, his too-long Beaker-arms dragging the floor. He tried to wave one of them at the couple. "Look at this wreck! Look what you've done!"

"What'd I do?" Newsie gulped, trying to focus.

Bunsen came cautiously upstairs, and looked Beaker over, frowning. "Hmm. Beaker, your nose is gone! How will you smell now? Tsst, stt, stt!"

Beaker was not amused. "Mee mee meep meep!" He tried to thwap Bunsen with a flipper.

Kermit surveyed the backstage damage, which although not quite as bad as the stage itself, depressed him even further. "We'll never be able to keep the theatre open like this! Newsman, your ridiculous energy field has destroyed everything! _Everything!"_

"Hey!" Gina said, holding the still-dazed Newsie tight, "Your mad scientist there admitted _he_ built the whatever generator! You can't possibly –"

"I _can,_ and I _am!"_ Kermit shouted, making everyone but Gina flinch. He turned briefly to Bunsen and Beaker. "Bunsen, don't think this won't fall on you too! I don't know _what_ the heck you think you were doing, but this one really takes the cake!" Beaker cringed, startled; Bunsen raised both hands to his mouth, worried. Kermit glared back at Newsie, an especially unnerving effect due to having beady eyes at the moment, and eyebrows he could actually scowl with. "The Muppet Theatre is _closed!_ I don't know if we can _ever_ reopen! Look at this place! Look at _me!_ Newsman, _you…are…"_

The Newsman's voice was quiet but distinct. "I quit."

Kermit shook, flabbergasted. "Y-you what?"

Exhausted, Newsie stared right at Kermit, his eyes tired, clothes soaked and probably ruined, muscles spent, heart strong. "I quit." He looked up at Gina. "Can we go home now?"

Gina glared at Kermit, then around at everyone else. They all suddenly had somewhere else to be looking. Even Scribbler seemed chastened. "Yes. Let's go home." She stood slowly, helping Newsie to his unsteady feet. He held her hand, but stood up as straight as he could, and walked on his own feet out the back door, where the stove had vanished and nothing blocked their exit. Quietly, heads high, they went down the rear steps and into the steady rain.

Rizzo poked Gonzo. "Hey, correct me if I'm misrememberin' here, but didn't he _already_ quit? I thought this was like the new Newsman or somethin'."

"Oh…no, that was just a skit, to do the silly Muppet Labs clone joke," Gonzo whispered back. Kermit was still looking out the back door, stunned.

"Clones? _Those_ guys made clones?" Rizzo wondered, looking at the scientists. Beaker was sadly flapping his thin green arms as Bunsen studied him thoughtfully.

"Don't be silly, Rizzo! _Real_ Muppet clones don't exist. Right, Camilla?"

"Bawk, bawk," three different identical chickens clucked.

Gonzo stared at them. "Hey, c'mon! That's not funny! Camilla..." All three chickens clustered around Gonzo. Bewildered, he looked from each to another. "Uh...which one of you is my girlfriend?"

Kermit turned wearily back to the theatre, his gaze sweeping across the gaps, the wrecks, the exposed lower level. He sat down on the bottom of the dressing-room staircase, sighing, feeling hopeless. Sure, if they could get the Vend-a-Face to actually work, everyone might be restored to their normal selves in a few hours, with luck…but the Muppet Theatre was thoroughly wrecked.

The show might never go on again.


	27. Chapter 27

By the time they reached the apartment, Newsie was shivering badly. Inside the door, Gina stopped and held onto him a long moment. He gulped, deeply uneasy about what he'd just done. He searched her eyes, looking for judgment. "Do you…do you think that was foolish of me?"

She smiled gently at him. "No. I think that was brave. Very brave."

"Oh good grief…I'm…I'm unemployed!" he exclaimed, the fact of it finally hitting him. His legs felt weak; he sat down right there on the carpet. He'd been through periods where he was barely getting by with the minimum in food and shelter, but he'd never been one hundred per cent insolvent before. "What…what am I going to do?"

Gina crouched, hugging him again. "Before you start panicking, let's look at the immediate situation, okay?"

"Okay," he gulped, eagerly looking into her face. She seemed weary as well. Concerned, he brushed her wet hair away from her eyes. "You're soaked, and you didn't even go into the whirlpool," he said.

She sighed. "So…let's both of us get a nice, hot shower, and then some hot food. We have…" she checked her watch; Newsie was surprised it still worked. It had some kind of hard case over it. _Techies must be prepared for anything,_ he thought, impressed. Even stage floors turning into raging waters. "About three and a half hours before we should head out for the theatre."

"The theatre?"

"The Sosilly. Final dress rehearsal tonight. Opening's tomorrow. It's one heck of a short rehearsal week they've run, and everyone is freaking out. I'm certainly not going to make you, but I really think you should come with me," Gina said quietly, and softly stroked his cheek. "I don't want you alone here all night after what you just went through."

"What about you?" he asked. He took her hands in his, wincing at the red scars in her palms. "That really looks painful. Can I do anything?"

"Okay, so it hurts," Gina said, managing a smile for him. "But you nearly drowned and got sucked into some kind of face-swapping dimension. Just imagine if you and Rizzo had exchanged noses or something!"

Newsie shuddered. "Or Scribbler. At least he got a taste of something bad…"

"Oh! You didn't see!" Gina dug her phone out of the pocket of her sweatpants, keyed something on it, and showed him the screen. His eyes widened at the images of the tabloid reporter hanging upside-down by his scrawny ankle from what looked like Gina's hand. In one shot, he appeared on the verge of throwing up. Amazed, Newsie looked back up at Gina. She grinned. "Sorry you missed the wind-up and the pitch."

"You…you did that?"

"Yep. Caught him trying to leave the theatre. I was bringing him to you." Her face darkened. "Wish now I hadn't thrown him onto the stage."

"It's all right," he said, looking delightedly at the pictures again. "That's really good quality…can I get a print of that? I'd like to pin it up in…oh." His face fell as he realized he no longer had so much as a closet to call a dressing-room anymore.

"I'll save them for you, and you can pin them up at your new office, or wherever you wind up," Gina promised, kissing his nose. She didn't seem to mind how soaked he was.

"Gina…who's going to want to hire me? I'm…I'm nobody," Newsie said. "I'm a jinx."

"Okay. I've had about _enough_ of that."

He looked up, startled; she seemed angry. He gulped nervously. She put her eyes an inch from his own, glaring. "You. Are. Not. A. Jinx. Got that?"

"B-but…"

"The only _but_ I want to see around here is yours, in the shower, right now!"

"Erk!"

"Move it!"

A few minutes later, she surprised him again by suddenly attacking him with the soap. Startled, he nearly fell back against the hot and cold knobs; she caught him quickly, then very, very gently began rubbing foamy suds on his chest. He swallowed anxiously, feeling completely vulnerable, but she wasn't being harsh. Calming after a few moments, he stepped forward, embracing her. She made a pleased sort of _hmmm_. The water falling on them both was wonderfully, endlessly hot, and in her arms he felt some of the anxiety dissipating. "I thought you were angry with me," he muttered in her ear.

"What? No." Gina smiled. "I just want you to stop thinking of yourself like that."

He sighed, happy with everything he felt at that moment. "Uh…you know what?"

"What?"

"This is kind of nice," he admitted. They stared at one another. Newsie broke into a grin. Gina giggled, then pelted him with the soapy scrubbie-scrunchie.

"'Bout time you figured that out!"

When they were both dry, Gina pulled on a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with a theatrical-lighting logo and the letters _AUM_ , and tossed one of her oversized tees at Newsie. "Here. Pull this on."

"Huh?" He stared at it; the gray shirt bearing the statement _Property of Deep 13 Athletics_ looked too long. He'd already pulled up a pair of his boxers. She tossed over his bunny slippers. "Wait. What are we doing?"

"Going to the basement to put your clothes in the dryer." When he looked up in surprise, Gina shrugged. "I started some laundry for you earlier."

"Oh…thank you." He couldn't recall how many years it had been since anyone had done that for him. He might have been nine.

Gina bundled up all of their wet clothes. "Might as well wash these too. We really need to get you some more clothes. How do you get by with so few?"

"Uh…I did have more." Blushing, he thought of the burns, the stains, the garbage, the various accidents and incidents of late which seemed to be taking a toll on his wardrobe.

Gina grinned at him, picking up her change purse of quarters and the apartment keys as she stepped into her own slippers, which looked satin, oriental, and a bit worn down. "Tell you what. I will put three more outfits for you on my credit card, if you agree to let me pick _one_ of them out!"

"Uh…er…" He swallowed nervously, trying to shrug down the t-shirt over his shorter frame. It reached to his knees. "No pink?"

Gina laughed. "What's wrong with pink? Serious newscasters wear pink!"

"Like who?"

"Jeffery Brown on PBS. Anderson Cooper!"

Newsie winced, giving in. "Not the coat! _Or_ the tie!"

"I was thinking shirt."

He sighed, following her out of the apartment. "Okay, sure."

"Hee, hee, hee…my Newsie in pink!"

"Stop it," he muttered, turning that exact shade.

She kept giggling, but in the elevator she hugged him, and he decided to just shut up. She was being extraordinarily generous to him. He thought suddenly of what she'd said to him when she'd rescued him from the whirlpool; he hadn't been hit so hard this time that he'd forgotten that. Did she mean it? He glanced uncertainly up at her as they exited the elevator in the basement. He wondered what she'd thought about his saying the same to her this morning, foolishly, in the heat of strong emotion, when he'd left to find Scribbler… and then again when he was sure they were about to be sucked into a horrible deadly pool together. Should he bring it up? Should he even ask?

No, he decided, frightened by the thought of her possible denial. _Everybody says things when they're upset,_ he thought. _What if she didn't mean it like you did?_ No…best not to know. Not right now. Anxiously he tried to quell the shivering starting all over again. Why wreck things? Hadn't he caused enough damage already today?

Unhappy, he stopped in front of the row of dryers while Gina fished his clean, damp clothes out of a large washing machine and picked a dryer to heave them into before starting their rain-drenched clothes to washing. While she fed change into a laundry-soap powder dispenser, Newsie paced slowly along the row of machines, head down. "Uh…thank you for doing all this," he said.

"Sure," she replied, then paused. "Newsie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I –" Startled, he froze. "Did that just move?"

"What?"

"That…that washing machine. I think it grinned at me."

Gina stared from him to the machine. "Newsie…it's just a washer. Not a monster, not a Muppet. See?" She rapped on the thick front-loading door of it.

"Gina, step back," he warned her, positive he'd seen something.

She sighed. "Newsie, I promise, there's nothing scary down –"

"RRROOOAAAAGGHHHH!" the thing roared, lunging forward, its door swinging open and teeth sprouting from the round edges. With a startled scream, Gina fell, her slippers skidding on the slick concrete floor. The washing machine monster shook its enormous head (or was that its body?) at her, clawed feet rapidly growing beneath it, raising it off the floor. Gina scrambled backward, but the thing crouched for a leap.

 _"_ _Leave her alone!"_ Newsie yelled, beaning it between its setting-knob eyes with one of his bunny slippers. Surprised, it reared back a moment. Gina got to her feet, moving fast, retreating next to Newsie. His hand found hers, and they clung together, eyes wide, backing away as the empty washer snarled, clapping its mouth-door open and shut several times as if anticipating how good they would taste. As it broke free of its plug with a sizzling spark and lunged at them, Newsie shoved Gina toward the elevator. _"Run!"_

He threw his other slipper as they raced for the closed elevator doors, but the washer caught it midair, eating it. He saw it squealing in fright inside the thing's circular maw. Gina pounded the call button. The washer roared again, bounding after them, banging up its bottom side with every hard landing; it didn't seem to care. The elevator dinged, and Gina and Newsie pushed inside before the doors finished opening, throwing themselves to either side of the car as the monster crashed into the doors. It was too wide to fit inside. It raged at them, shaking its open door-mouth. Newsie hit the button for the ninth floor. Gina kicked the thing's hatch shut right before the elevator doors slid shut again.

As the car traveled up, they panted, staring in fright at one another. "What…the heck…was that?" Gina asked.

Shaking badly, Newsie staggered to her and held tight. "A m-monster!" He took several deep breaths. "I really h-hate those guys…"

"How can a washing machine turn into a monster?" Gina demanded.

Newsie felt his heart slamming inside his ribs, and simply hugged her. "Same way my desk did once, I g-guess."

"Oo-kay," she said, gulping air as well. "Heh…I guess life with you is going to be a little different."

Worried, he stared into her face. "I…I shouldn't…I mean, you shouldn't have to…"

Gina glared at him, then hugged him tight. "Don't you _even_ say it." She nodded firmly, sighing. "Whatever it is, I say we just get some lunch and wait. Maybe it'll go away, right?"

Newsie shuddered. "Maybe it'll bring more! Maybe it'll eat my clothes!"

"Well, better that than us, right?"

Slowly getting his breath back, he met her gaze, then nodded. "Right."

They endeavored to pass the next hour quietly, calmly, both of them deliberately not saying anything about either laundry or monsters. Rain pattered down relentlessly outside the windows. Gina fixed them both a thick tomato soup, stirring mixed chopped veggies and lots of savory spices in, and grilled a couple of gouda-on-sourdough sandwiches to go with it. They camped out on the sofa to eat, wedged close to one another beneath a soft fuzzy throw blanket, watching something about spawning salmon on a nature cable show. After a while, when Gina wriggled her thigh against him and then slid down in her seat, he took the hint, and surprised her by moving over.

Looking up at him, Gina smiled. "About time you did that."

"Really?" Pleased, Newsie enjoyed the view from this angle. Feeling his pulse quicken without being terrified was a new, and assuredly much better sensation.

"Mm-hmm. Like it there?"

His breath caught as she did something under the blanket. "Uhm. Very much," he managed, his voice dropping.

"Gonna do something about it?"

He considered it. "Like what?" When she started to protest, he grinned at her, and showed her he'd figured out a thing or two.

"Oh…" Gina said. She smiled, and the sight of her hair spilling over the sofa was one of the loveliest things he'd ever been privileged to. "My journalist has a fast learning curve, I see."

In response, he kissed her, sighing happily.

Gina took his glasses off. He didn't mind.

The first one Kermit called was Scooter. It seemed like only a few minutes passed until his right-hand young man ran up the back steps, closely followed by Piggy. Scooter stared in awestruck silence at the stage. Piggy ran to Kermit, and he didn't object to her strong arms going around him. It had been the worst possible day. The rain continued to fall, as if mourning. At least the much-quieter Honeydew had been able to tinker with the Vend-a-Face successfully, and one by one each Muppet affected by the whirlpool was restored to their original face…at least, as far as Kermit could tell. The two workmen had walked off lost in a discussion of whether Bob now had Steve's nose, or vice versa.

"Santa Maria!" Pepe said, stunned, carefully going around the edge of the big hole just inside the back doorway. "Did we get hit by the meter-iters or somethings?"

"No, it was all that stupid geek's fault ag—the _what?"_ Rizzo replied, startled.

"The meter-iters. You know. Like big meter maids that crash down from space."

"That's _meteorites!"_

"Whatever…"

Fozzie kept gasping, horrified, as he walked around the circumference of the open stage. "Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Kermit! This is the biggest hole I've ever seen!" He paused. "You know, I think this is even bigger than the one J P made that time…"

"Uh, yeah, Fozzie. Just a little," Kermit fumed.

Piggy kissed his cheek, and he sighed. "Oh, Kermie, this is awful! What are we going to do?" she asked, her blue eyes brimming with tears.

The others all gathered around the bottom of the dressing-room stairs. Kermit sat with Piggy on the steps. He shook his head slowly. "I…I don't know. I just don't know."

Beaker nudged Bunsen. Meekly, the scientist stepped forward. "Er…Kermit… Beaker and I have a little money set aside from our patent sale of the edible paperclips. It's almost a hundred dollars. We'd, ah…we'd like you to have it."

Kermit sighed. "Gee, thanks, guys."

"Mee mumbred molla," Beaker echoed hopefully.

Kermit shook his head. "Great. With what's left in the theatre account, plus the money we already owed for the new stove and the repair work today, which is now completely _useless,_ I think that puts us only twenty dollars in the hole… _without_ counting the holes!" He scowled at the ruined backstage floor.

"Oh, Kermie…at least you're all right," Piggy said softly. He looked into her eyes, feeling grateful for the hope he saw there, but then shook it off.

"Piggy, what difference does it make? Look at this place! We're sunk!"

Scooter tried to shine a better light on things. "Well…what about those celebrity friends of yours? Maybe we could ask them for help! We could hold a fundraiser, maybe…a dinner or something!" Kermit shook his head. Scooter tried again: "Uh…an auction?"

"What could we possibly auction? Ruined drapes? Souvenir floorboard toothpicks?" The frog rose, gesturing around. "Even with all the money in the world, it would take _months—"_

"A date with _moi,"_ Piggy said, standing up, throwing her head back.

"Excuse me?" Kermit said, startled.

The others exchanged looks. Piggy nodded purposefully. "I will auction off a date with _moi_ to the highest bidder! One date only, and _no_ going back to their hotel room," she growled, her voice dropping.

Scooter nodded. "Yeah! Piggy, that's a _great_ idea!"

Kermit frowned, shaking his head. "No, Piggy! I…I won't have you debasing yourself like that!"

Touched, she caressed his shoulder. "Oh, Kermie…" Straightening her back proudly, she nodded at the wrecked floor. "I will offer up one single date, to help fix the theatre."

"And…and I'll be someone's personal assistant for a week!" Scooter announced.

"We'll jam all night for the lucky winner at their house party," Floyd Pepper offered, checking the expressions of his bandmates. Dr Teeth and Zoot nodded. Janice slipped an arm around his waist.

"You have the biggest heart, honeybunny," she told him proudly.

"House par-TEH! House par-TEH!" Animal yelled, bouncing in place.

"Maybe I could bring someone to the swamp for a play-date," Robin piped up.

Kermit shook his head. "I don't know that that's such a good idea, Robin…unless they're a frog too. But thank you."

People started speaking up loudly all around the room.

"I'd autograph my cannon!"

"Sern de boorn fer snikty-snookty!"

"Aa-AA-aaaahhh…my very first rubber chicken!"

"Perhaps they'd like a boomerang fish-throwing lesson! Eee-hee-hee-hee!"

"I would be honored to lead a tour of the Capitol, including _all_ of our sacred, national, _American_ monuments…"

"Oh! We could put the full experience of Muppet Labs to work solving their most complex scientific problem…"

"Mee meep mee mee!"

"Definitely _not_ a good idea," Kermit interrupted that one. "Everyone, everyone! Quiet down!"

"…And so I was, like, I am _not_ doing a bikini calendar for _that,_ but this would be a _rully_ good cause, you know?" Janice paused, looking around at everyone, then fell silent.

Kermit sighed. "Guys…look. I appreciate what you're all trying to offer, but I don't think anyone is going to be interested enough in any of it to bother! We're talking _thousands_ of dollars of damage here!" He turned, gazing unhappily at each of them in turn. "Probably _hundreds_ of thousands! There's just no way we can raise that kind of money!"

Piggy started to sniffle. "I mean…thank you. All of you. Especially you, Piggy. But…it's just not going to be enough," Kermit finished quietly.

Everyone was silent.

Finally Scooter said, "But…but we can try, right?"

Kermit looked at him, then at Piggy. She blinked big wet eyes at him, and he felt his insides twist up. _Well, maybe it would at least pay off any debts we still owe,_ Kermit thought unhappily. Every Muppet was staring at him, waiting, desperately hoping he'd somehow work a way out of this for them. Feeling overwhelmed, he sighed. "Sure. Sure, we can try."

"Oh, thank you Kermie!" Piggy hugged him, planting kisses all over his face.

"I'll start rounding up everyone who's ever been a guest," Scooter said, pulling an unharmed legal pad from somewhere and starting to make notes. "Maybe some of them would be willing to donate their time, or something for the auction."

"I'll put the word out on the grape-vine to our musically inclined brethren," Dr Teeth said, to the approval of his fellow musicians present. "I can see it now: MuppAid!" He laughed widely, making everyone grin.

Kermit watched all of them hurriedly making plans, and shook his head. He sat by Piggy, holding her hands, resigned. No matter how high their hopes, he knew the sickening truth: it wouldn't be enough. Not by a long shot.

The Muppet Theatre, as of today, no longer existed as anything but a broken shell.

In the basement of a sturdy, stately building which had existed since the early 1930s, an elevator dinged. Its doors slid open.

The monstrous washing machine shuffled forward, opening its doorish mouth, its interior cylinder spinning quietly once in hungry anticipation. It peered into the elevator, tilting itself left, then right, to view the whole car. It didn't see anyone. Puzzled, it wedged a front corner inside as the doors tried to shut once more, making snuffling noises.

The door to the stairs flew open. One short yellow-skinned man and one slender redhaired woman rushed out in t-shirts and bare feet, aluminum baseball bats upraised, and charged the monster washer before it could pull free, shrieking their war cry: _"Aaaaaaaaaahhhhh!"_

"Whuuufff!" the washer snorted as blow after blow rained upon its side, the racket of metal on metal ringing dully off the concrete walls.

The side of the washer dented, and the monster, enraged, pulled out of the elevator doorway, backing up. Gina smacked it over its control knobs, and it roared, the door-mouth open wide, showing rows on rows of sharp teeth. _"Now!"_ Gina yelled, whacking its top again.

Newsie whipped the makeshift sash off his shoulder, swinging the jug of bleach it was tied to up and out. He'd never been a good shot at anything, but the monster's mouth was too big to miss: the bleach jug sailed whole into the open hatch. Gina kicked it shut and pounded her bat against the latch, then reached over and set the knobs to _PERMANENT PRESS._ Newsie hefted his own weapon again, stepping back in fear, but as Gina retreated with him, the washer growled and shook itself from side to side, but couldn't reopen its round mouth. "Ha _hah!_ Chew on _that!"_ Newsie yelled at it, thrilled.

"Mmmmuurrrgh," the washing machine protested. It whirled its cylinder around violently. Its knob-eyes popped wide. _"Mmmmmuuurrrgghhhhhh!"_

The jug of bleach cracked open, splashing toxic liquid inside the thing's gullet. The monster shuddered, reeling from side to side. Gina and Newsie dodged as it careened down the aisle of immobile machines. It beat itself against the far wall a few times, in a futile effort to unstick its mouth latch. The bleach spun inside it, splashing the interior window of its hatch. At last, with a low groan, the monster sank down, its feet disappearing beneath it, and shuddered once more before its eyes hardened into simple knobs again. The spinning interior slowly came to a halt.

Breathless, Newsie looked at Gina. She grinned back. With a loud cry of triumph, he ran to her, and they spun once in an embrace, laughing. "We did it!" he yelled.

"Look at that," she panted, happy. "The Muppet Newsman, Fearless Monster Killer!"

He laughed, delighted. They hugged a moment longer, then Gina sighed. "Whew… Okay. That was fun. Let's get your clothes."

"Sounds good."

They unloaded the dryer, which had not in fact eaten even one of his sports coats, and reset it to dry the second load. Stepping into the elevator with his arms full of warm, dry, clean clothes, Newsie couldn't stop smiling. He wondered if this was how Indiana Jones usually felt.

The doors closed and the elevator started up. Neither of them noticed the ironing board back in a corner of the basement beginning to unfold spindly, insectoid legs…

In the lab, Beaker slowly swept what was left of the floor, pausing to consider the dustpan a moment before shrugging and sweeping the dirt and small debris down the hole the whirlpool here had left. Honeydew sighed, poking at the smoking, fused hulk of metal and wiring which had formerly been the glorious psychokinetic reverse energy field manifestational generator. He wondered if auctioning off what was left of their weapons-grade plutonium would be fruitful. He hadn't said so to Beaker, but privately he knew he did bear some of the blame for the horrible events of the day.

"I really thought we had the solution," Bunsen mused aloud. Beaker looked up briefly, gave him a curt meep in reply, and went back to sweeping. Bunsen looked around at the remaining mainframes. At least the whirlpool here had simply gone away once the Newsman's energy field had drawn all of the pools together onstage, so the lab hadn't suffered as much damage as some other areas. Oh, how he wished he'd been able to program in the data Beaker had brought back! Maybe then…

Bunsen started, straightening from the chair-back he'd been leaning dejectedly on. "Beaker! Where's the mobile psychokinetic energy field detector?"

Beaker stared at him. Was Bunsen actually thinking about pursuing the experiment? After all _that?_ His nose still ached from being squashed around by that blasted Vend-a-Face!

"Beaker, don't you see? The Newsman's lady friend was giving off an equally strong energy field, correct?"

Beaker sighed, shrugged, and held his hands up. "Mee meep mee mee me mee!"

"No, no; it might _not_ be a lost cause! Think about it! As far as we know, she didn't _previously_ have things falling on her, right?"

Irritated, Beaker shrugged. "Meep _mo?"_

Growing excited, Bunsen began digging through the pile of smashed chemistry things with a spent carbon-arc rod. "Beaker! Don't be so defeatist!" Beaker sighed. "If the Newsman's girlfriend didn't originally have as strong an energy field around her as _he_ did, perhaps blocking _her_ energy will decrease his as well!"

Startled, Beaker watched his colleague searching the room for the lost detector. He considered it carefully, wondering about covalent bonds, and concurrent energy fields, and the Mumford Scale, and…well… _mippy-mippy._

"Ahah!" Bunsen held up the psychokinetic energy field detector, largely intact save for one bent antenna. He checked its data readout screen, then waved it excitedly. "Yes! Yes! Look, Beakie! Look at the readings!" Seeing his lab partner simply staring silently at him, Bunsen's enthusiasm dropped. He came over to Beaker, and the two gazed at one another. "You know, Beaker…I admit, I was a bit too hasty in setting up this generator. I really…I really ought to have waited until _all_ the data was in. I'm…I'm sorry." He blinked apologetically at Beaker.

Beaker sighed. He took the detector from Bunsen and studied the screen. After a minute he looked up. Bunsen's air was hopeful, attentive. "Well? What do you think?"

Beaker nodded. He patted his friend on the shoulder.

Bunsen smiled widely. "Well! Then let's get to it, shall we?"

"Meep mee," Beaker agreed. He rolled up his sleeves, looked around at the wreckage, and sighed. With renewed energy he resumed sweeping, and Bunsen began clearing space on a lab table to cannibalize what he could from the ruined generator.

The umbrella was large enough for both of them to huddle beneath. Newsie hung on to Gina's free hand as she kept the shelter over them, trotting as quickly as he could to keep up with her longer strides. She was dressed in what she called "running blacks," black leggings and a black long-sleeved tunic with black tennis shoes and socks, and her hair was braided and pinned up in back. Newsie had elected to wear his new blue-green check sports coat and the charcoal pants with his usual dress Oxfords, as being darker than the brown-and-tan-check outfit and therefore less conspicuous in the lighting booth. Gina had insisted he ought to sit with her there for the duration of the rehearsal. They both wore long russet-colored overcoats against the chilly rain. In his other hand, Newsie carried a small satchel containing two large Thermoses of coffee and a bag of trail mix for them to share at intermission.

The excitement palpable just in Gina's preparations, and the rush of his victory over an actual monster, buoyed Newsie's mood and kept him from dwelling on the disaster at the Muppet Theatre. The rain splashed him only occasionally as they hurried along the wet sidewalks toward the Sosilly. Yet doubts nagged him; it couldn't really have been his fault, could it? _Seriously: Scribbler set the darned thing off, and if Honeydew hadn't built it in the first place-!_ He didn't really have some kind of dangerous energy field surrounding him…did he? _But the maelstrom vanished when they knocked you unconscious. Doesn't that prove something?_ Uneasily, he almost tripped on a curb as they ran across a street.

Gina slowed, checking to make sure he was all right. "I'm sorry, Newsie! I'm going too fast. Here, we can slow down, that's the last crossing; we're almost there." Just ahead, Newsie could see the newer theatre in its old factory building; a few lights were on in the lobby, visible through the large exhibit windows out front. She gave him a smile. "There's one other theatre superstition, which I'm telling you now so you won't get too worried if things seem screwed up tonight."

"What's that?"

"If your final dress rehearsal is terrible, then your opening night will be wonderful. I swear some people subconsciously mess up just because they know that tradition!" She laughed. Newsie tried to smile back, nodding.

He hoped it didn't go that way. He wasn't sure he could take feeling any worse than he had today.

Holding Gina's hand, he leaped from step to step, pacing her. Together they pushed open the lobby door and went in. The Newsman took down the umbrella quickly, recalling another old superstition about those, and gently set it down on the floor next to the door. Not that he was a superstitious man…but.

It couldn't hurt, tonight.


	28. Chapter 28

The Newsman waited anxiously in the lighting booth, staring out the window into the catwalks as Gina moved from instrument to instrument, all of them glowing softly, checking to see all was in order before the house would be opened to the audience. Despite his worries, she seemed fine, and when she dropped back down into the booth, she smiled at him. "All good," she said, and Newsie nodded once in relief. Scott looked up from the console where he'd been fine-tuning a couple of the lighting cues already programmed in.

"Cool. All set, then. I'm gonna go grab a coffee. Want anything?"

"We brought our own," Gina replied, lifting her Thermos. Scott grinned. He gave her shoulder a friendly smack, then Newsie's the same, startling the Muppet reporter.

"Have a good run. Kayla should be up any minute." He left the booth, shutting the door behind him. Bewildered, Newsie looked at Gina. She shook her head, smiling.

"That's just Scott. Don't worry, he likes you."

"That was _like?"_ Newsie grumbled, rotating his shoulder back into place.

"Yep." She beckoned him closer; he rose from the seat he'd been given, a few feet behind her and just to the side so he'd be able to see the actors through the window. Gina gave him a long hug. "How're you feeling?"

"All right," he replied. "I'm glad I came with you." He couldn't imagine how alone he'd have felt back at the apartment without her, especially after Scribbler, the wreckage at the Muppet Theatre, and the monster washer. Now he sighed into her arms, and cautiously stroked a few strands of her soft, shining hair down her temples. She smiled at him, encouraging his boldness. Slowly able to smile in return, Newsie leaned forward and kissed her. Ah, that was amazing. He'd never get used to that, to how soft her lips felt against his own, how willing she was to kiss, to touch…

The door to the booth swung open; Newsie pulled back, embarrassed. "So this one controls the house lights," Gina said loudly, then looked up. "Hey, Kayla."

"Hey," Kayla replied. Clearing his throat nervously, Newsie was about to return to his seat when the dark-haired young woman with skull earrings put her fingertips against his chest. Startled, he froze, looking up. The stage manager's mouth was set in a grimace. Oh, no. He'd thought his presence here had been approved! Was she going to kick him out? "I think I owe you an apology," she said.

"Wh-what?"

"I, uh…I didn't realize you and Gina were really dating. I thought it was some kind of prank, the last time you were here. I'm sorry for assuming. Okay?" She stared down at him. He wondered what he was supposed to say.

"Kayla, it's all good," Gina said quietly. Newsie glanced at her, then back at Kayla, and nodded agreement. Instantly the stage manager relaxed, flashing a big grin.

"Hey, good. Welcome to the booth," she said, sticking a hand with scarily long nails out. Newsie shook it gingerly.

"I'll, uh, try to stay out of the way," he promised, backing into his chair.

"Just remember: absolute quiet in here once I start calling cues. The door to the grid stays open so we can hear the lines, 'cause the stage mic is horrible; but that means any audience members back this far will be able to hear us if we're loud," Kayla said, indicating the door at the top of the short ladder just past the lighting console. She dropped into her own seat, checking her watch. "Nuts…five minutes!" Quickly pulling on a headset, she adjusted the tiny mic on it and repeated the five-minute-to-house-open call. Below, a couple of stagehands grabbed a small bucket and paintbrushes and hurried backstage. Kayla snorted. "Final dress, and Dr Rob wanted more little gray bits over there! Can you believe it?"

"Yep," Gina said, stretching, then gently touching the soft gloves on her hands. Newsie had helped her treat and bandage the rope-burns on her palms, and she'd pulled on a pair of black cotton gloves to keep them clean during the rehearsal. Concerned, Newsie leaned forward, watching her. Seeing this, Gina gave him a smile, and he relaxed somewhat. He listened, understanding very little, as Kayla chattered at Gina a few minutes about other people in the company. Finally Kayla announced to everyone that the house was open. The heavy doors below the booth were swung in and propped open, and Kayla started a CD playing over the house speakers, something classical and moody which Newsie didn't recognize.

Gina stood, peering down into the tiered seats of the audience. "Do we actually have anyone coming tonight?"

Kayla shrugged. "Dunno. Heard Dr Rob saying something about inviting a few critics, and I think some of the cast have friends here. I doubt it'll be many people, with that rain still pounding down. You didn't walk all the way here, did you?"

"We ran," Gina grinned, looking back at Newsie. He smiled at her. Suddenly the stage manager turned to him.

"So, I heard you work at the Muppet Theatre?"

"Er. Ah." He wasn't sure what to say. "Uh…I did until recently. Yes."

"What's Miss Piggy like? I hear she's as bad as Shannon!" Kayla seemed to be addressing Gina as much as him.

"Shannon…?"

"Lady M," Gina supplied.

"Oh. Er. I wouldn't know…Miss Piggy is…she's…er…a forceful personality," Newsie managed.

"And does that weird little blue guy actually do his own stunts?"

"Uh…yes. Yes he does." Newsie reflected unhappily that Gonzo wouldn't be doing his crazy, death-defying acts at the Muppet Theatre anytime soon. He had no idea what it would take to make the theatre usable again, but he doubted it would be running a show for months.

"I only went once, but I've heard some stories," Kayla continued. "Do you guys really have dancing chickens? And flying cows?"

"Uh…the cows don't fly. They drop."

Kayla laughed. "That is _so_ crazy! I bet you have some great stories, yeah?"

Newsie winced instinctively. "Er…stories?"

"Oh, you don't have to worry! You're the only one from there we ever see over here; nothing will get back to them, if you tell it to us," Kayla assured him. Newsie threw a helpless look at Gina.

"Hey Kayla, listen…" Gina began, but the stage manager barged on, oblivious.

"I heard about this one guy over there, who tries to do some kind of act about breaking news, and stuff keeps falling on him! Man, I'd love to see that! Jimmy told me about it once, and it sounded _so_ funny!"

 _"_ _Kayla!"_

Surprised, Kayla stared at her. "Gina! The grid door is _open!"_

"Kayla. Not a good topic right now. Okay? We've had a _really_ long day, been through a _lot_ of stuff, and I'm here to do the show, and Newsie's here to try and relax and keep me from going nuts. Okay?" The two young women locked eyes. Bewildered, Kayla finally held up her long-nailed hands.

"Okay, sure, sorry." Kayla gave them both a puzzled look, then picked up a large notebook with her cue script in it and stood. "I'm gonna go talk to Frank about the thing with the witches. He was late the last two nights making the demon pop up. Back in a sec." She left quickly. When the door had shut, Gina let out a frustrated sigh.

Newsie sat silently, head down. "Ignore her," Gina advised.

He shrugged. "Maybe…maybe my leaving was the right decision," he said, dejected.

"You deserve more respect than you got there," Gina said firmly. Newsie looked up at her, feeling the familiar old resignation and shame.

"I only wanted to be a serious journalist…"

"You _are._ Newsie, trust me, we'll find someplace for you that'll treat you better." Gina stretched her headset cord back to his chair, flipping the mic out of the way, and crouched to put her hands lightly on his thighs. He looked at her miserably.

"I'm just a joke," he muttered.

"Newsie, you are _not!_ You are…dedicated, and persevering, and a man of integrity, and…" She kissed his nose. "Handsome, and adorable, and caring…" He could feel himself turning bright pink; thankfully the lighting inside the booth was very dim and already tinted reddish. She made him look her in the eye anyway. "And…mine, if you want to be." He swallowed hard, wishing immediately they were somewhere else. Somewhere private. When she leaned in, he met her kiss gratefully. "All right?" she asked softly. Unable to speak, Newsie nodded.

Something came over her headset, and quickly Gina retreated to the lighting board, flipping her mic back in front of her lips. "Yeah…I see it. On it now," she spoke quietly, adjusting something on the console in response to whatever she was being told. The Newsman watched her, silent, enveloped in the enormity of unfamiliar emotions. Did this mean she'd meant what she said earlier, during the horrible catastrophe with the whirlpools? He'd never even hoped for that kind of relationship with anyone; for decades, his unhappy duty to his mother had completely excluded any other person becoming close to him, and even though he'd been alone a few years now, the ridicule he'd endured all his life had made any kind of…well, _romance_ …seem impossible. Who would want him? Even other Muppets thought he was laughable, much less anyone else of the female persuasion. Gina said…Gina said she loved him.

He wasn't aware he was even staring at her until she spoke his name the second time. "Newsie? Are you okay? What's wrong?"

His vision seemed blurred. He took off his glasses, trying to wipe his eyes surreptitiously as he cleaned off the lenses with one of the pre-soaked cloths Gina had advised him to tuck into a coat pocket. "Nothing. I'm fine. Nothing." He reset the glasses on the bridge of his nose, blinked at her, and saw her worried expression. He forced a smile. "Gina, I'm fine. Um…I just… Thank you."

"For what? Saying you're adorable?"

"No, for…" His throat felt stuck. "For…for wanting me. I mean, I'd…I'd like that. Being around you. Er. That is…"

Relaxing into a lovely smile, Gina leaned over the back of her chair, taking his hand in hers; he touched it carefully, mindful of her injury. She didn't heal as fast as a Muppet would, he'd noticed. "Together, then?"

He nodded eagerly. "Together!"

"Good." She smiled at him almost shyly, then cleared her throat and picked up her coffee mug, releasing him. She tried to open the Thermos, wincing, unable to unscrew the stopper. Immediately Newsie jumped down and took it from her. Swiftly he opened the jug and poured a hot cup of the coffee for her. She set it carefully on a small table away from the lighting console, then leaned over and embraced him. Newsie hugged her tightly, his chest oddly strained, wanting badly to be useful to her, helpful, pleasing. "Thank you," she murmured right into his ear.

"Thank you," he whispered back.

They heard footsteps coming up to the booth, and separated. Newsie resumed his seat just as Scott returned. Scott nodded at them both, then gazed out at the dim gray and blue illumination washing the stage area. "Looks nice," Gina said.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

"You'd better," Gina teased. To Newsie she said, "He designed the set and the lights on this one." Newsie nodded. The scenery of various platforms and things which appeared to be crumbling walls puzzled him; it certainly wasn't anything like the more traditional sets or bright lights of the Muppet Theatre, and he was somewhat curious as to how the complete production would look. He suspected it would prove as dark and scary as the movie version Gina had shown him.

"Hey, did ya hear what the director said to the followspot operator at the end of the song?" Scott asked.

Gina was shaking her head, scowling. Confused, Newsie realized Scott was addressing him. "Er…I'm usually not privileged to technical conversations," he said.

Scott laughed. "He said, 'Out, out –'"

"You'd better shut up right there!" Gina growled. "I've already had to deal with _one_ Scottish curse this week! I _will_ make you run around this building in the rain if I have to!"

Newsie shuddered, thinking of tornados; he glanced out at the grid nervously. Scott, however, only chuckled, and stole a sip of Gina's coffee from her mug. "Man, that's good! You gotta bring me some of that!"

"I'll bring a pot of it to strike. Don't you have designer-y things to do?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just came up to see what it looked like for the pre-set." Scott grinned at them both. "I won't be on headset tonight, but I am making notes."

"Of course you are. Now beat it! Only serious people are allowed in the booth!" Gina smacked him with a rolled-up script.

Still chuckling deeply, Scott left. Gina exchanged a look with the Newsman. "Don't worry," she said softly. "I won't let anything go wrong. Still have your bracelet?"

Newsie nodded, sliding back his coatsleeve to show her. She smiled. "Okay. Just sit back and try to enjoy the show… Fifteen," she acknowledged into her mic. To Newsie she said, "We start in fifteen minutes." She blew out a breath. "Then it's only three hours, ten minutes to go!"

He nodded again, fidgeting a little, looking down at the string bracelet. Not only did he plan to wear it until it simply wore out, he was thinking of asking her for another. Hopefully, now that he wasn't at the Muppet Theatre, there wouldn't be as much wear and tear on such things… Swallowing down an uneasy feeling, he tried to focus on the present moment. Gina wanted him here, with her. He shouldn't think about anything else right now. He should be basking in that, not thinking about whirlpools…or angry co-workers…or people laughing at him.

The Newsman poured a cup of strong, rich-scented coffee from his own Thermos, inhaling its steam. Gina sighed, stretching again in her chair, and smiled at him. Newsie tried to smile back, tried to settle in, tried to be happy. He especially tried _not_ to think about jinxes.

The one advantage to watching the show from the booth, he decided, was that hearing all the cues for lighting or scenery shifts spoken like a quiet counterpoint to the words of the play enabled him to distance himself from the story a little. The Newsman watched the first few scenes in silence, doing his best to keep still so as not to distract the two young women running the show from here. Although the production wasn't as striking as the Patrick Stewart version, it was well done; he was surprised when Kayla cursed softly and Gina answered with a breathy laugh.

"He flubbed that one, didn't he," Gina murmured, as Macbeth left the King, saying he was going home to Glamis to prepare for his sovereign's visit there.

Kayla sighed, and quietly called the next cue. When the lights shifted, she replied, "Well, what the heck. As long as they don't mess it up tomorrow night…"

"Newsie could play Ross," Gina offered. Startled, Newsie looked at her. She tossed him a smile before poising her hands over the console in readiness for the next sequence of lighting cues. He wondered why she would say a thing like that; he had no training as an actor! It had been so long since he'd even _had_ a news story he could memorize ahead of time, he wasn't sure he could anymore. He waited until she turned to him again, not wanting to interrupt the flow of cues.

"I don't know anything about acting!" he protested in a rough whisper.

"Just a joke, I promise," Gina reassured him. "I just kind of thought of him as your character."

"Which one is Ross?"

"The Thane who delivered the news to Mac that the King had named him Thane of Cawdor," Gina whispered. "In the movie version, he's the one with glasses in the trenchcoat. If you noticed, he's some kind of news-bearer in every scene that he appears in, except the banquet."

"Oh," Newsie said, surprised. He turned his attention back to the stage as Macbeth and his Lady began the plotting which would catapult them to power. He recalled the character, but hadn't noticed any resemblance to himself. In this production, everyone was dressed in tunics and kilts which he assumed were more authentic; certainly no one was wearing glasses onstage. He suddenly realized he was fidgeting with the string bracelet, and forced himself to stop. There was no reason to be nervous. Nothing was going to happen. Here, there were no wild machines generating dangerous stage-eating whirlpools, no crackpot scientists, and no News Flashes. Newsie sank into his chair, thinking about that. No more News Flashes. Since he'd taken on the job, way back in '76, he'd presented the news faithfully, every week, sometimes every night for stretches at a time, and not only on the Muppet Show. He'd moved up from field reporter to sub-anchor at KRAK in the '80s and '90s, persevering no matter what sort of drivel he was given to cover or to read. He still couldn't fathom why he'd been let go; nothing at the news station had been destroyed. Should he have offered his services to KMUP? He'd been skeptical, at the time, about the station's survival, apparently with good foresight; but all the same, maybe if he'd made himself professionally available for more than one show, the other Muppets wouldn't have looked down on him quite so much. Clifford, for one, he knew, thought he was a sell-out for taking a better position at KRAK. Newsie had overheard the show host talking about it once at a party with Rizzo, after everyone had consumed more triple vanilla cream sodas on the rocks than was wise.

Well, what was he supposed to do? His mother's medical bills at that point were barely covered, between her Medicaid and other benefits and his own desperate salary. He'd gone without luxuries like new shoes, or even non-packaged food, for years to try and make ends meet. Angrily, the Newsman shook his head. And then, after years of doing everything he was asked – everything! he'd even subbed for the often-tardy weatherman a few times – the station manager, Harlan Grosse Point Blanke (another nephew, he'd heard, of the Muppet Theatre's former owner J P Grosse) had simply called him into the office one day and handed him his pink slip. No explanations as to why he'd been singled out. "Ratings are down, we gotta cut some folks," was all Harlan had said. No way they'd hire him back after that ignominious sacking.

Noticing movement in front of him, Newsie blinked, refocusing. Gina waved to get his attention, then whispered, "Are you all right?"

Newsie nodded quickly. She gave him a very uncertain smile, and he leaned forward to touch her hand briefly. "Fine. Sorry."

"Stand by cue fifty-three," Kayla warned.

"Standing by," Gina muttered, looking back at her lighting board. Newsie retreated again. He tried to keep his mind, as well as his gaze, on the play. Macbeth came walking slowly from the King's chambers, bearing aloft the bloody daggers, looking much like a ghost himself. Newsie watched intently as the suddenly-sick Thane and his forceful Lady argued, admiring the players' art. He himself had no such talents, and sometimes couldn't even keep his own reactions to things inside, despite his attempted dedication to a professional demeanor at all times. He'd always striven to deliver the news gravely and with a sense of the importance of getting information to the public, taking the inimitable Edward R Murrow as his role model…even though he'd never had a story which compared to the McCarthy hearings. When big news did break, the star anchor or Washington correspondent had always been assigned it; never the Newsman. Depressed again suddenly, Newsie considered that. When had he _ever_ had a fantastic story, an amazing scoop, been the first on the scene for something important?

Never. Not once. He'd even missed out when the Holiday diamond necklace was stolen here in the city…and to add insult to failure, Kermit had wanted he and Fozzie and Gonzo to cover the story even in the movie version! Sure, they'd been nice enough to give him a small cameo…but he would've liked to pretend, just for a bit, that he'd been the one on the scene at the theft, the intrepid reporter chasing the exciting story.

Why? What was wrong with him? Why wasn't he ever chosen for the follow-up story, the half-hour special report, the digging-through-the-files research, even? Swallowing dryly, Newsie went for a sip of his coffee, and found it had gone cold. Moving as quietly as he could, he reached for his Thermos, unscrewed the top, inhaled the lovely warm scent within, poured the cold remains back in and gently swished them around. Just as he tipped the jug to pour a fresh, warm cup, a tremendous boom came from the stage.

Startled, he dropped the cup, spilling coffee on the old linoleum floor of the booth. Panicking, he looked around for something to arrest its spread. Kayla gestured at him angrily; he saw she was pointing to a roll of paper towels, and grabbed them, doing his best to sop up the spill. More booming knocks sounded, and he realized it was the knocking at the gate which summoned the porter. Part of the play. Ashamed of himself, Newsie knelt on the floor, making as sure as he could in the dim light of the booth that he'd wiped up every drop, although wet spots on his pants and shoes remained despite his efforts to daub them with a towel. With a smarting ego, he resumed his seat and recapped the Thermos, giving up on it. He noticed Kayla was giving him an irritated look, and mouthed "I'm sorry" at her. The stage manager merely shook her head, returning her attention to the stage below. Newsie wanted to sink into the floor. Perhaps he ought to just go home.

Gina caught his eyes, asking silently if he was okay. He gave her a nod, mortified, and clasped his hands together over his chest, sinking into the plastic chair as much as he could. Maybe he'd wait until intermission, after the third act, and then just go sit in the lobby, where he wouldn't be disturbing anyone. He felt a tap on his knee, and looked up; Gina had shifted her entire seat back to touch him. He waved her off hurriedly, not wanting her to get in trouble as well. She frowned briefly, then blew him a kiss, looking concerned. Newsie did his best to smile for her, though he suspected it would look strained. When she scooted back to the console again, he lowered his head to his hands. _That's why no one wanted to entrust you with anything important,_ he thought. _You have all the grace and poise of a walrus, without even the excuse of ungainly size!_ He realized it wouldn't matter where he tried to go, what he applied for; if his reputation for jinxed newscasts didn't precede him, his own awkward social skills would bring him down. He'd seen enough of what passed for news on most stations to grasp that style won out over substance every time. He wondered if even PBS would accept him now.

A light suddenly went dark. Gina and Kayla looked up. "What the hey?" Kayla muttered. "Didn't you look at everything in the preshow check?"

"Excuse me, _how_ long have I worked here? Of _course_ I did!" Gina hissed back. "I can't go up there now, it'd be too noisy. I'll fix it at intermission."

"Freakin' Scottish Play," Kayla grumbled, but went back to her cue-calling smoothly.

Newsie stared out at the grid catwalks, hoping there were no more faulty electrical cables up there. Maybe he should go up with Gina, just to be sure. If something was wrong, better it should get him than her. He swallowed nervously, his eyes darting all over the upper part of the theatre, where numerous lights shone, some fading down while others came up as the action continued beneath them. It all seemed far more intricate than the system at the Muppet Theatre.

When the assassins encountered Banquo and his son, as the deed was done, a crash sounded from somewhere backstage. Quickly Kayla was asking about it over her headset while the actors paused only a beat before continuing their lines and running off, leaving Banquo dead on the floor. "Well, can you fix it?" Kayla hissed in response to whatever she was being told. Apparently the answer wasn't good. She raised her fists in the air, grimacing, and Newsie cowered back, the thought suddenly striking him that she might turn on him as a scapegoat; everyone else seemed to be doing so these days. She cursed creatively but quietly several seconds. Newsie had no idea what half those words meant, but clearly they weren't happy phrases. Gina was shaking her head, hearing all of the crisis on her own headset. Suddenly she grabbed Kayla's arm, and they had a fast and whispered conference. Kayla at first shook her head, giving Newsie several displeased looks, and he glanced in growing fright from one of them to the other. Was he about to be kicked out? He couldn't recall even having been backstage tonight! He'd come straight up to the booth with Gina; he couldn't possibly be responsible for anything wrong back there, could he?

When Gina scooted her chair back quietly, he muttered at her, "I'm sorry! Whatever it is, I'm sorry!"

"What? Newsie, you didn't do anything. The demon's broke," Gina said. He stared at her in utter incomprehension. "For the start of act four, when Mac goes back to the witches and demands answers from them, and they summon their masters. We had this cool effect, with a big puppet that pops up in smoke and creepy lighting. One of the extras just tripped over it and caved its head in and tore half the costume off." She searched his eyes hopefully. "Would you be willing to help us out?"

"I don't know how to repair puppets," he said, confused.

"No…would you be willing to play the demon? Just for tonight?"

Newsie stared at her, shocked. "M-me? A demon?"

"All you'd have to do would be stand up where and when the assistant stage manager says, and sort of gesture all floaty-ish," Gina tried to explain, demonstrating with languid, liquid movements of her arms in front of her. It made Newsie think of a drowned person swaying in a current, and he shivered. "Just for tonight! We can set you up with the costume backstage during intermission. You don't even have to speak; one of the actors is doing the voice." She looked so pleadingly at him he didn't feel he could refuse.

"Just…just tonight?"

"The prop guys'll fix the puppet tomorrow before opening. Just for tonight. I wouldn't even ask, but there's a few critics in the audience." She pointed out the booth window at someone in the center of the seats below, beckoning Newsie to come see. He stood as close to the window as he could, peering down, and saw a balding head and what looked like a notepad. "That's Foppy Swofford, the new reviewer for the _Times!_ We can't just fake our way through it tonight." Gina took his hand gently, entreating him with worried eyes. "Please, Newsie? Just this once?"

"Sure," he agreed, overwhelmed. Gina hugged him quickly before returning both hands to the board to execute the next couple of cues. Kayla tapped his shoulder. Nervously he turned, but she was nodding at him.

"Thanks, man. It'd help a lot," she whispered.

When she finished with cues for the immediate moment, Gina pulled him close for a kiss. He felt embarrassed about doing so in front of Kayla, and made it a fast one. Gina smiled at him, stroking back his hair. "Thank you. Thank you _so_ much, Newsie!" She sighed. "What did I tell you about final dress mistakes?"

"Got nothing to do with final dress," Kayla grumbled. "It's just the freakin' Scottish Play. Don't know _why_ Dr Rob picked this one. I thought he preferred silly musicals!"

Gina only smiled. Newsie backed away, finding his seat once more. He tried to watch the rest of the act, but even the frightening banquet scene didn't hold his attention. He'd agreed to be on stage as some sort of witches' boss. This was crazy! But then he thought about the day thus far; was this worse than being sucked down a whirlpool? Grimly, he set his jaw, shaking his head. No. Gina had pulled him from certain doom – what might have happened to everyone if he'd been sucked into that horrible thing? Would it have continued dragging things down? Would it have winked out of existence, trapping him somewhere else? Killing him? Shuddering, Newsie wrapped his arms around his chest, holding tightly. She'd saved him. The least he could do was play a silly part for a few minutes. If he was costumed, he doubted anyone would even recognize him, and he'd seen only a handful of people in the audience at all.

Trying to convince himself everything would be fine, the Newsman huddled in his chair, and waited for intermission.

"Is that too snug?" the young man serving as the assistant stage manager asked.

"It's fine," Newsie replied, although he felt terribly uncomfortable. Gina had convinced him she'd take every safety precaution, so even if there was something faulty with the electrics she wouldn't be hurt; only after a long and insistent discussion about that on both sides did he relinquish his demand to go to the grid with her. Instead, he'd been shown backstage and given a weird costume to change into. He hadn't caught a glimpse of the demon puppet, which was fine with him. Demon sounded too close to monster for his taste. With two minutes to go before the show resumed, and very few after that before he'd have to pretend to be some sort of otherworldly thing, he felt horribly anxious.

The costume consisted of layers of ripped and shredded cloth dyed gray and blue which covered his arms, his torso, flapping and fluttering around his bare legs (he'd refused to go without shorts, though). There was also a sort of horned cap of similar straggling shreds which one of the prop people had hurriedly pinned together, with an elastic strap under his chin to hold it on. Newsie felt like the ghost of birthday parties past. Provided, of course, that they'd been really, really awful birthday parties. His seventh, for example. Pushing the image of being smashed face-first into his own cake out of his mind angrily, Newsie tried to focus on the directions he'd been given. _Lights down, I move over to that platform and get ready to stand up and do the arm-waving thing; then down, then hurry to the next platform and do it again, then down, then up from under that hole…_ It all seemed fairly complicated, and he hoped the young man herding him around knew what he was doing. He hoped he wouldn't get it wrong. His anxiety increased a hundredfold when the young man (Newsie thought his name was Jimmy) suddenly removed Newsie's glasses.

"No! I can't see without those!" Newsie protested, but Jimmy tucked them into his own shirt pocket.

"I'll keep 'em safe for you. You can't wear 'em onstage! Now come on, we need to get you into place," the assistant said, pushing Newsie toward the curtains which masked the backstage area from the larger open space of the stage floor. Newsie heard the dark, moody music swell and fade overhead, and then the lights rapidly dimmed almost to total blackness. "Demon moving," Jimmy whispered over his portable headset, and nudged Newsie along behind the masking. Newsie tried to step carefully, deeply unhappy about not being able to see anything, but the hand on his back was insistent. Finally he was held still by one shoulder. He squinted back, and saw the assistant gesturing at a platform just above Newsie's head. That must be the first stand for this nonsense. How was he even supposed to get up there? Jimmy nudged his shoulder again, pointing out a small stepladder. Cautiously Newsie climbed onto it, keeping his head down. This was insane. He took a deep breath. For Gina. He could do this for her.

He waited tensely, listening as onstage the witches chanted: _"Double, double, toil and trouble! Fire burn and cauldron bubble!"_ With a start, he realized this was the scary scene Gina had pulled him into her lap for. Macbeth arrived, and demanded answers; they called the first spirit forth. Jimmy pointed at Newsie; a fan came on somewhere behind him, and a soft, spooky light rippled down. Newsie stood up, staring out at blurred figures barely visible in the low light of the scene, reminding himself to hold his arms up and sway. He almost jumped when an actor right below him called out in a deep, rough voice which completely belied the languid swaying Newsie was trying to do: _"Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth! Beware MacDuff! Beware the Thane of Fife! Dismiss me – enough!"_

Newsie ducked, quickly scrambling down the ladder, starting to pant in his hurry and nervousness. He was guided fast up the stepladder to a second platform, and the performance repeated for the second summoned spirit. Down again, and as he was rushed to the hidden hole which would enable him to pop up right in front of the startled Macbeth, Newsie hit his head on the underside of the heavy wooden frame of the surrounding platform. He bit his lip, trying not to cry out, at once pained and angry. Jimmy urged him up. Feeling tears at the corners of his eyes, and an immediate ache on the top of his head, Newsie stood up through the hole and did the slow wavy movement again, although he felt as though he was about to collapse, dizzy and unable to focus. When he was allowed to drop down, his part finally done, Newsie pushed away the arm of the assistant and just sat down under the platform for a minute. Jimmy patted his shoulder, apparently oblivious to his injury, and handed him his glasses before hurrying off.

The Newsman sat motionless, feeling angry and ridiculous in this stupid costume, holding his head. When he felt he could stand without being woozy, he put his glasses on and carefully crept along the edge of the stage to the masking curtains, and then backstage. The actor who'd been voicing the demons touched his shoulder briefly before heading onstage to do some other small part: "Hey, nice drowning dance there. Looked good." Newsie was too exhausted and dispirited to reply.

He wanted to get out of this thing immediately. He wanted to get back up to Gina, and sit still until the show was over, and then go home. He wanted to crawl into bed with her, and feel her arms around him, and simply rest, and feel safe again…to feel appreciated. People were dashing around, getting ready for the next scene. Newsie wasn't sure which direction the men's dressing room was in the darkness. As he paused, trying to peer backstage - just a crowded space between the stage area and the door somewhere back there for the green room - he heard an actor onstage promising someone her husband was acting rightly. An image of the same scene from the film came to him, and he turned, listening.

The conciliatory Thane of Ross was musing aloud to Lady MacDuff. "I dare not speak much further… Cruel are the times, when we are traitors and do not know ourselves," the character said softly, and Newsie stood motionless, the words striking some deep chord; "When we hold rumor from what we fear, yet know not _what_ we fear, but float upon a wild and violent sea…"

Traitors, and do not know ourselves…why did that seem troubling to him? He'd never betrayed anyone! He'd been loyal, always, whether to his mother, to his jobs, to his friends…his friends… Newsie gulped. Did he even _have_ any friends? Had they ever even _been_ his friends? Certainly they wouldn't be now! Not after today! Not after he'd…he'd…

Honeydew, looking sadly at him: _"I'm afraid you are…it's dependent on your subconscious fears…" "We know not what we fear, but float upon a wild and violent sea…"_ Whirlpools, violently dragging it all down: his friends, his work, his life. Newsie choked, trembling, staring out at the stage, just able from this angle to see the harried Ross taking his leave of Lady MacDuff, and the arrival of Macbeth's soldiers, and the slaughter of the innocent family: this production showed one single knife slice across a child's throat, and a spurt of blood, and the lights fell dark. Frightened, Newsie backed away, clutching one of the black curtains. It was fake, he knew it was fake, and yet it disturbed him deeply. Gina saw him in the character of Ross. The Thane of Ross bears bad news, and immediately after, the murders occur. Ross didn't urge the family to flee; a friendly soldier did that. Newsie knew that soon, Ross would bear the news of the tragedy to MacDuff. Not the cause of it…but might've prevented it, and did nothing…

What if he hadn't read the story about the tornado? What if he'd taken one look at that bizarre story about words vanishing, and dismissed it? What if he hadn't chased Scribbler down in the theatre? It would still be standing, undamaged, and he'd still have a job, and no one would be furious and disgusted with him.

Newsie felt tears running down his face, but could only hold tight to the curtain, immobile, stunned. The whirlpools had disappeared as soon as Gonzo had knocked him out. Honeydew had been right. Newsie was the cause of it. Weird generator or not, nothing would have happened if he hadn't been there.

It really was all his fault.

The actors murmured uncertainly; something was flickering brightly overhead. Newsie looked up quickly and saw one of the lighting instruments giving off a shower of white sparks. It was directly above him, hung at the far edge of the stage area. Frightened, he stepped back just as the instrument caught fire. Jimmy hurried over, looking up, reporting to Kayla in the booth: "I see it! I don't know, but it's on fire now! You guys better put it out fast before it sets off the sprinklers!"

Newsie groaned, staring up at the small fire. This was his fault! He _must_ have some kind of energy around him, setting off bad things, just like Honeydew had claimed! _It's true, it's true, it's all your fault!_ his mind screamed at him. Above, he heard soft clanking sounds as someone ran toward the fire on the catwalks. He saw Gina hurrying to put out the flames, a small extinguisher in hand. _I'm a jinx, I'm cursed, all I do is bring horrible things down on everyone!_ Newsie gulped, shaking his head, but unable to deny what he knew now was the awful truth. "Gina," he whispered, staring up at her. He shouldn't even be here! He was dangerous, he was cursed, it was only a matter of time before he hurt her…

At that thought, the Newsman sobbed aloud in anguish, unable to bear it.

Gina shrieked, grabbing wildly at the catwalk rail, the extinguisher falling to the stage floor loudly as the section of metal grating she stood on suddenly shook and the support bars broke away from the ceiling.

 _"_ _No!"_ Newsie shouted, running underneath the catwalk. Gina's injured hands didn't have the strength in them to hold her; she fell. He threw himself beneath her, the breath knocked from his body when she hit. The catwalk section swung crazily above, hanging on by one support pole to the roof girders, the metal groaning deeply. People began shouting. Coughing, Newsie struggled to pull himself out from under Gina, frantic to check her, to get her away from the danger. She was unconscious. He had no way of knowing if any bones were broken. Crying, he put his ear to her breast; her heart still beat. She made a soft, painful sound. The six-foot section of grating swaying above like a drowned thing in a strong current moaned loudly as if in response. Then something cracked. The Newsman looked up to see one more deadly thing falling straight at him. Straight for Gina. With a scream, he threw himself over her head.

The last thing he felt was the impact of eighty or so pounds of steel and aluminum plunging from twenty-five feet up, crushing him on top of his first and only lover. He didn't even have time to think it was better him than her, instantly sent into black unconsciousness.


	29. Chapter 29

Like the other scattered people in the audience, Rhonda had an intimation something was wrong but didn't know for certain until an ugly-sounding crash came from the back corner of the theatre and the fire alarm went off. Sprinklers turned on, briefly causing sparks in the gaggle of lights above the stage before the power automatically shut down; emergency lights came on; people began yelling and running out of the theatre. There was some sort of commotion in that back corner. Rhonda's news instincts outweighed her natural urge to flee, and she hurried down from the audience to the flat stage floor. She had to dodge actors running offstage and a few fleeing critics, impatiently yelling up at the clumsy humans: "Hey! Watch it! Press! Press comin' through!"

She halted with a gasp when she saw the cause of the confusion. An entire plate of the metal grid had fallen from the ceiling, pinning someone beneath it. The muscular actor playing Macbeth and one of the other actors were lifting the metal away, then tossing aside some raggy-looking piece of scenery and kneeling to check the young woman in black sprawled out cold on the hard floor. Rhonda recognized that red hair! Horrified, she ran forward. "Ohmygosh! Ohmygosh! Somebody call an ambulance!"

The guy playing Macbeth saw her, shrieked, and fled. The other actor stared at her in utter shock. Rhonda yelled at him, "Hey! That's a friend of mine! Call the freakin' paramedics already!"

"H-huh?" the actor stuttered, frozen. Rhonda hopped up on Gina's shoulder, checking her pulse with a paw on her throat, finding the young woman was alive but insensible. The actor still knelt next to her, looking poleaxed himself. Disgusted, Rhonda slapped his cheek. He flinched, and once again she commanded: _"Call the danged paramedics already!"_

"Oh…uh…uh…they should be on the way," he said, recovering some use of his brain. "The alarm goes off at the local fire station."

"Well tell 'em to _hurry up!"_ Rhonda squeaked, and the guy nodded, scrambled to his feet, and went to find a phone. Someone else dressed in black with a headset on one ear ran over, stared at Rhonda a second, then swallowed and seemed to digest her presence better than the actors had. "You! Techie boy! What happened?"

"There was a light on fire," he gulped. "She…she ran out to take care of it before it could set off the sprinklers…the grid just fell…the whole section just _fell!"_

"Good grief! Don't you people _inspect_ these things?" Rhonda snapped. Turning back to Gina, she stroked her hair gently, worried. The sprinklers were still spraying everything onstage, soaking the curtains. "Oh, man, oh, man…this is bad…first the Muppet Theatre, now this! Where the heck is that yellow geek? Why isn't he here for her?"

"I'll get her a blanket; she might be in shock!" the techie boy said, and stumbled on the straggly piece of scenery as he left. Angrily he kicked the thing out of his way. Rhonda heard a deep, pained moan.

Startled, she looked over at the thing covered in what looked like strips of dyed rags. Suddenly she realized it was the demon-thing the witches had summoned up at the start of the act. That had really creeped her out, waving around like seaweed in the tide, and she'd shivered in her seat and thanked her lucky stars Rizzo and the rest of the gang weren't here to see her getting scared by a prop.

Just as techie boy returned with a pillow and a blanket, a pair of firefighters ran up, followed closely by two paramedics. "Clear the space, please! Clear the space!"

Rhonda retreated, stopping by the fallen piece of catwalk. One of the paramedics immediately knelt by Gina, checking her pulse, her airway, her closed eyes. The other took one look and ran back the way he'd come, yelling something about a stretcher. One of the firemen looked up at the damaged grid, shaking his head. "She fell from there?"

"Yes! It was awful! Is she going to be okay?" the young techie guy asked.

"Can we get this shut off?" one of the firemen yelled.

"Vitals seem stable…did she land on her head? Looks like that thing fell on her," the medic said, glancing over at the grid section.

The techie gulped, shaking his head. "I don't know…I don't know…I was running back here to tell people to avoid this area, I didn't see it! I saw her coming with the fire extinguisher to get that light, and then I heard the crash…"

Something moaned again behind Rhonda. Unnerved, she looked over at the raggy demon prop. Was that something moving under the fabric shreds?

"Looks like some swelling here…might be broken bones. Has anyone tried to move her?"

"No," said the actor whom Rhonda had slapped, returning to stand anxiously next to the medic. "No, we didn't move her. We just pulled that piece of the grid off her. Uh, that puppet cushioned her head, I think. I saw the edge fall kind of sideways on it and bounce before it really landed."

"Lucky her," the medic said, feeling under Gina's neck gently. "That may have saved her life." The other medic returned with a back board, a wheeled stretcher, and a neck brace. Quickly they secured Gina's head and neck, and slid the board beneath her whole body. "One – two – three – _lift,"_ the first one grunted. Swiftly they bore her out of the theatre through the lobby doors.

The firemen were stomping along the grid above, checking the support poles. Someone shut off the alarm system and the sprinklers. Actors and techies milled around, chattering loudly, clearly frightened; Rhonda heard several people saying something about a curse. Shaking her head, glad Gina was in expert hands, Rhonda turned to the stirring thing in rags, which was making noises like a wounded dog. Tentatively she reached over and flipped up a few of the rags. A familiar long nose and cracked hornrims met her stare. "Oh my gosh…Newsie?"

He groaned, eyes closed, apparently having trouble moving. Hurriedly Rhonda pulled off what seemed to be a hat with raggy strands pinned to it, revealing the Newsman's distinctive features. "You? _You_ played the demon thing?" Rhonda shook her head, stunned. "Sheesh! You know, I think I actually like that stupid jacket of yours better! You look like something that crawled out of that Grouch guy's trashcan!"

Newsie blinked, trying to focus. A large crack over his left lens made it difficult. Everything hurt. He swore he could even feel his eyebrows, and they hurt too. "Gina…"

"Oh, man," Rhonda said, realizing what had happened. "Newsie, she's gone. They took her off to the hospital." She placed a paw on his hand. "Did you throw yourself over her and try to take the damage instead?"

Newsie couldn't reply. It felt like his throat was crushed. Weakly he gave a nod, gasping. "Oh, man," Rhonda sighed. "That is about the sweetest thing I ever heard."

Hospital? Gina? How bad? Desperately he tried to move, feeling tears of frustration and pain starting, unable to stop them, unable even to wipe them away. Rhonda's voice softened. "Hey…hey. That was a really lovely thing you did, Newsie. I'm…I'm sure she's gonna be okay. They know what they're doing. They're gonna take good care of her." She wedged herself under his left shoulder. "Come on, let's get you away from these idiots. Boy! What a terrible final dress! I wonder if they're even gonna open tomorrow night? Bet that _Times_ critic pastes this mess all over the Arts section…"

When she tried to heft him up, he cried out in pain. Concerned, Rhonda stopped, looking around at the blabbering people all doing nothing useful. "Hey! _Hey!"_ When no one even looked at her, she put one hand to her mouth and gave her loudest taxi-stopping whistle. Everyone froze, startled. "Hey! Little help here?"

A tall, lanky man with white-blonde hair and more tattoos than Rhonda had ever seen outside of a biker bar strode over, looking grim. He bent down and carefully lifted the Newsman from the floor, wincing when Newsie choked back a scream. "Dang, man. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Hold on, okay?" Rhonda trotted after them as the tall man carried Newsie backstage and laid him on an unoccupied sofa. "Can you move? Anything broken?" he asked the Newsman.

Newsie gulped back his tears, unable to reply. Rhonda took his hand. "You a friend?" the tall man asked her.

"Rhonda Rat. On assignment from 'Broadway Beat' at the _Post,"_ she told him. "Yeah, you could say a friend. You got any painkillers back here?"

"It's a theatre," the tall guy said, flashing a sarcastic grin. "Yeah, I'll find something. Scott, by the way. You know if he has any allergies?"

"Do you have any allergies?" Rhonda asked Newsie, who was blinking and trying to find some part of his body which didn't scream in agony when he moved it. He managed to shake his head at her, very weakly. Scott hurried away. Rhonda patted Newsie's hand. "You just hang tight. We'll get you something for the pain."

"Gina," he whispered, and with a gasp and a strain tried to sit up. He gurgled in pain, but forced himself to move into a more or less upright position, slumping against the back of the sofa. "Rhonda, I have to get to her…have to make sure…"

"Geez, you sound like you swallowed a porcupine. I don't think you should move yet," Rhonda advised. Scott returned and handed Newsie two small pills and a paper cup of water. With a groan, Newsie was able to accept them, though his whole arm shook badly. His throat felt crushed still, and swallowing proved difficult, but he got them down.

"Actually I do," he whispered, and Scott and Rhonda looked puzzled at each other.

"You do what?" Rhonda asked.

"I have allergies…" he gasped. "Rhodo…dendrons. And…and mushrooms."

"Trust me. None of those in what you took," Scott assured him.

"What…what were those?"

"Well, if you're still conscious in fifteen minutes, you've got a stronger constitution than half the folks here," Scott said. Rhonda shook her head.

"The medics totally ignored him! Some professionals," she muttered, but that only made Newsie try to stir himself.

"I have to…have to get to her…"

"Dude, you should be going nowhere right now. They took Gina to St Pancreas. It's only three blocks away; she should be okay. You just chill there." Scott sighed. "I have to go talk to the director, see if we're going to try to open tomorrow or what. I can't believe the grid collapsed! I sure hope the maintenance company gets sued. They're supposed to inspect it every month! Check back on you later, okay?"

When he stormed off, Rhonda shook her head again. "Man, what a night. I think that's gonna have to be my headline: 'Double Theatre Tragedy Brings Down Classics'! Between the Muppet Theatre disaster and now this, it's like the Bad Luck Fairy running amok!" She paused, considering that line. "Hmm. Do you think 'Bad Luck Fairy' is too silly to use in a professional review?"

"My fault," Newsie whispered. "My fault…"

Worried, Rhonda hopped onto the couch and reached up to feel his forehead. "That must be some powerful stuff he just gave ya…"

Upset, Newsie brushed her hand away, although moving anything shot pain through his whole body. "Rhonda…it's all my fault… I have…some kind of energy around me. Makes things…go wrong…" With a groan, he tried to swing his legs to the floor.

"Uh, Newsie? Newsie, don't move – really, look, I think you oughta do what the tall skinny guy said and just sit tight, okay? Newsie – oh, man. Stop!"

Ignoring her, the Newsman gritted his teeth, determined to go find Gina. He couldn't rest until he was sure she was going to be all right. This was all his fault! If she was badly hurt…if she… He couldn't finish the thought, and did his best not to cry more. He staggered to his feet, wobbling, caught the edge of the sofa and held there a moment, breathing hard, his chest in agony at every inhalation. He'd been flattened before, but never this painfully. Lately it seemed like he was feeling things more acutely. He'd wondered at this, counting it a blessing in Gina's bedroom, but now he wished he was his normal, take-the-blows-and-deal-with-it self. Suddenly he felt something under his arm, and looked down. Rhonda had wedged herself there, trying to stop him. She sighed again. "Okay. Where are your clothes? You go out looking like that, and you're likely to get heaved into a dumpster!"

He was in too much pain, and too worried about Gina, to care about anyone looking at his boxers. With Rhonda's help and painfully slow movements he was able finally to get out of the costume and back into his pants, shirt, and coat. He had trouble doing the buttons, and felt too horrible to worry about the tie. When he was more or less dressed, he took as deep a breath as he could, and moved toward the door. Rhonda darted beneath his arm again, doing her best to help hold him upright.

Newsie gave her a nod of thanks, and together they slowly staggered out of the green room, through the mainstage area, and down the short hall to the lobby.

Scott stopped them at the lobby doors, coming in as they were wobbling out. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

"St Pancreas," Newsie muttered, glaring up. He wasn't about to let anyone stop him, even if they were three feet taller.

Scott looked him over once, then shrugged. "At least let me call you a cab? And I'll bring down your overcoat from the booth."

"Get Gina's stuff!" Rhonda called after him, and Scott waved an acknowledgement before loping up the stairs to the lighting booth. In a few minutes, Newsie's raincoat was draped over his shoulders, and Rhonda held onto Gina's folded coat and small purse with the air of one bearing a sacred burden, the two of them waiting just inside the main doors for the cab to arrive. Newsie leaned against a wall, breathing shallowly, feeling dizzy but determined to get to Gina, hoping whatever horrible luck was surrounding him, it would go dormant a little while, just long enough for him to make sure she was all right. After that, he didn't know what he'd do.

"There it is. Can you move?" Rhonda asked, concerned, as a yellow taxi pulled up at the bottom of the main steps to the Sosilly.

The Newsman forced himself into motion, wincing at every shaky step. Rhonda got beneath his left arm again, giving out small grunts as she supported him down the steps to the cab and helped him fall into the back seat. "Sheesh…she must be feeding you well," the rat complained, and then snapped at the surprised driver, "St Pancreas' Hospital! And step on it!"

"Uh…shouldn't you have called an ambulance instead?" the cabbie wondered, pulling slowly away from the curb. The rain still drizzled down, though less forcefully than before.

Newsie groaned quietly, trying to sit up. Rhonda shook her head. "Not for him! His girlfriend just went there on a stretcher!"

"Oh. Geez, buddy, I'm sorry. Uh, look, though…my boss has this policy. I don't do free runs for anyone or anything. How're you guys paying?"

Rhonda looked at Newsie. He seemed too out of it to even notice the discussion. Rhonda hopped through the partition window before the startled cabbie could shut it. "Look, pal: my friend here's in bad shape, and he just wants to get to his girlfriend before he passes out himself! Just drive, all right? Come on, have a heart!"

"Sister, you must not be a New York rat," the cabbie said angrily. _"Heart_ don't pay for nothin'!"

Steamed, Rhonda leaned closer, and squeaked shrilly, "How about _this,_ then? Either you get us to the hospital right away, and shut up about the fee, or I will put a big hole in your ear with my delicate little teeth!"

Chastened, the cabbie held up one hand in surrender as the rat bared said delicate little (and quite sharp) teeth. "Okay, okay! One sicko run, comin' right up!"

When the cab pulled up in the emergency entrance to St Pancreas, Rhonda said sweetly, "Thank you _very_ much. I'll be sure to tell my friends not to use your company again!"

"Suits me; I don't drive rats anyway!" the cabbie shot back. No sooner had the Newsman staggered from the cab than it drove off with a huffy squeal of tires on the wet street. Rhonda caught Newsie's arm before he fell.

"Thank you," he muttered at her as they slowly made their way toward the doors.

"Yeah, yeah," she sighed, struggling along.

"Would you…would you really have bit him?"

"Hah! And here I thought you'd already gone bye-bye." Rhonda gave him a smile. "Heck no! You think I wanna catch something?"

In a great deal of pain still, and feeling woozy on top of it now, Newsie still managed to give the loyal little rat a weak smile in return. Step by shaky step, they headed for the emergency room.

Carefully, Beaker threaded the last of the copper beads onto the titanium wire. He sighed, wiping his tired brow in relief. "All done?" Bunsen asked, coming over to look.

"Meep meep," Beaker replied, using a crimping tool to close off the ends of the chain of ionized beads inside small copper sheaths. He attached a loop at one end and a latch at the other, and held it up proudly. "Maa daa!"

 _"_ _Very_ nice, Beakie! I didn't know you knew how to make jewelry," Bunsen said.

Beaker shrugged modestly. "Mee meemee Meebo meep Moomell."

"Rainbow and Bluebell? You mean those nice girls who gave us a ride to Cape Dune that summer?" Beaker blushed a little. Bunsen chuckled. "Oh ho ho! Beaker, you devil! I didn't know you'd seen them since then!"

Beaker cleared his throat, embarrassed. He'd actually been going to a jewelry-making class once a month just because Bluebell also went. Bunsen lifted the charged necklace of beads, nodding approvingly. "This should do very nicely! Well done!"

Pleased, Beaker followed Bunsen to the machine the scientist had labored on all evening while Beaker rounded up and ionized the copper beads. It looked like a cross between the reverse gravity psychokinetic energy field generator and a photographic-studio line camera. "Excellent! All that remains is to attune the charged ionic psychokinetic energy modulator device with the specific Mumford Scale level that the Newsman's young lady friend was giving off! Now, hold them up right here, Beakie…yes, _just_ so…" As Beaker stood in front of the extended lens of the machine, holding up the necklace, Bunsen hurried to the rear and pushed several buttons. "Yes, just like that, hold it steady! In just a few seconds we should have the wearable modulator device ready to cancel out her psychokinetic energy field! One, two –"

Beaker suddenly realized he was standing in the path of a wide ray of charged psychokinetic alpha particles. With a squeak, he held up his free hand. _"Meep!_ Mee mee meep mee mee—"

THWOOOMMMM…

"Well! That should have done it! Let's just check and see if the wearable modulator device is giving off the anticharge properly…" Bunsen said happily, coming around to the front of the machine as it powered down. His lab assistant was nowhere in sight. "Beaker? Where's the wearable modulator device? You didn't drop it, did you?" He paused, looking around. "Beaker…?"

A faint meep came from the ceiling. Bunsen looked up, startled. "Oh! There you are! Yes, those particles are better than static electricity, aren't they? Here, drop me the device, please, Beakie…" Bunsen caught the necklace, and took it over to a desk to check it with the psychokinetic energy field detector. Beaker struggled to lower his pinned arms and legs, but they remained stuck fast to the ceiling. All his hair was standing even more on end than usual, and his nose was quivering with residual energy. Bunsen gave a shout of glee. "Yes! It worked! The wearable device is charged and ready to produce the antifield!" When there was no immediate response, Bunsen gave a sigh, looking up again. "Beaker, would you stop playing around and get down here? We need to go find Miss Broucek!" As he trotted off to find his galoshes, Bunsen mused, "I wonder if the charged particles at that specific level could have industrial uses? They might make a very good paint stripper…"

Beaker struggled again, but nothing would budge. He called down, "Meeeep! Me mee mee meep mee mee…"

"Oh, honestly, Beaker! You know the effect on living tissue only lasts a few seconds," Bunsen complained, searching for his umbrella in a stand holding golf clubs, carbon-arc rods, meter sticks, and a bamboo back scratcher. Behind him, with a descending shriek, Beaker plunged to the floor face-first. Bunsen scratched his head. "Beaker, have you seen my yellow ducky umbrella? I seem to have misplaced it."

Beaker groaned.


	30. Chapter 30

Sometimes, the Newsman didn't mind being short. It helped, for instance, when one was trying to sneak past nurses' desks on a closed ward. He waited, blinking around dazedly, trying not to give in to the urge to simply lay down, which was now pulsing pervasively through his entire body. He couldn't rest until he knew Gina was safe. A soft scuttling noise alerted him to company. Rhonda came up from under the bottom of the rolling cart Newsie was hiding behind in the hospital hallway. "Okay," she muttered. "So, I got a look at the admissions stuff. Looks like after she was treated in the emergency room, they took her upstairs. I think it said room three-twelve."

Newsie paused, taking that in. "No surgery?"

"Nothing on the file. I didn't have time to read it all before that bossy nurse came back. But it looks like she's upstairs now."

Relieved, he tried to pat the rat's shoulder. Rhonda said, "Uh…Newsie? What are you doing?"

He looked up, realizing his eyelids were drooping. He'd patted the rat atop her head. No wonder it felt odd… "Uh, sorry. You, um. You have nice hair," he said awkwardly.

Rhonda rolled her eyes. "Oh my gawd. You drugged is even worse than you normal. Come on, Einstein. Elevator's that way."

They jumped under the sheet of a passing gurney with a patient aboard, clinging precariously to the shelf below, as an unsuspecting nurse wheeled the gurney into the elevator. Fortuitously the patient was also destined for the third floor. The gurney stopped in the patient's room and the nurse hooked up his IV drip to a stand, checked a few things, and then left. Rhonda poked her head out, then elbowed Newsie. "Coast is clear! Come on!"

"Huh? …Oh…"

"Sheesh," the rat said, disgusted. "I wish you hadn't taken whatever that was! What, do I gotta do all this _for_ you?"

"I'm fine," he snapped back tiredly. "Three-twelve?"

"That's what it said." They quietly let themselves out of the room, checking the number on the door. "This is three-oh-eight."

Newsie glanced at the doors to the left and right, picking the larger number. "This way," he muttered, heading along the hall that direction.

"Like I can't read," Rhonda complained.

Upon reaching the closed door to room three-twelve, Newsie hesitated. He took a deep breath, his chest tight and every nerve shaking, though the pain itself seemed to have lessened. Reaching up to turn the knob, he eased the door open. Within, one bed lay empty. He started shaking in fear before Rhonda nudged him, pointing to the other bed, partly hidden by curtains. Rhonda shut the door most of the way, keeping her eyes trained on the corridor outside. Newsie approached the bed, seeing a familiar sprawl of red hair against the pillow. He swallowed hard. The last time he'd seen that was just hours ago; it felt more like days. There was a hard plastic chair by the bed; he climbed into it and at last saw Gina's face.

Her eyes were closed, and an oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth. An IV snaked into her left wrist. Bruises had bloomed across her collarbone, visible just above the pale green hospital gown. Trying not to cry, Newsie touched her hand, stroked her arm. She didn't give any sign she noticed.

"I think we're good," Rhonda whispered, popping up at the end of the bed. She gazed at Gina's sleeping form, and shook her head. "Man. That poor girl."

"Gina, I'm sorry," Newsie whispered, leaning close to touch her hair, her softly curved ear, her cheek. "This is all my fault. I'm so sorry…"

"It doesn't look _too_ bad," Rhonda said. Newsie glared sharply at her; how could she say such a thing? This was terrible! Rhonda held up Gina's medical chart, clipped to the end rail of the bed. "According to this, she's been treated for two broken ribs, cracks on two others, a bruised pelvis, bruised heels, a bump on her head, sprained collarbone, and some other minor contusions."

"How is _that_ not that bad?" Newsie hissed, dismayed.

"They already x-rayed her when she came in. Nothing else is broken, no internal injuries. Maybe mild concussion." Rhonda looked brightly at the Newsman. "Trust me, that ain't bad, considering how far she fell and what fell on her! Newsie, if you hadn't cushioned her…it'd be worse. _Much_ worse. You did good!"

"This is all _my fault!"_ Newsie argued. He turned back to Gina, softly stroking her hair on the pillow. Someone had undone her braid, probably to check the back of her skull. "I'm cursed, Rhonda! I'm…I'm dangerous! If I hadn't been so upset…if I hadn't even been there…" he gulped. "She'd be fine. She'd be unhurt."

The rat came closer, carefully stepping around Gina on the bed. "Newsie, what are you talking about?"

Angrily, he growled at her, "Didn't they tell you what happened at the Muppet Theatre today? Didn't they tell you I caused it all?" Rhonda stared at him, confused. Newsie could feel his throat going raw. "It's me. _I'm_ what's wrong here. Something…something's happened to me. That weird thing I've always had, the reason objects fall on me during my reports, call it a jinx, whatever – it's grown worse, Rhonda! _I've_ grown worse!" He shook his head, looking down at Gina, unable to hold the tears in any longer. "I…I love her. She…she wanted me to stay with her. If I do…she…it'll be _worse…"_ Choking up, he removed his hand from her hair, feeling suddenly as though his touch might contaminate her somehow. "That crackpot scientist was right! Kermit was right! I'm a threat to everyone!" Frightened, he stared at Gina. "I can't. I can't stay. I can't be with her. What else might happen?"

"Newsie…look, even if that's true, there must be _something_ we can do," Rhonda said.

He nodded desperately. "Yes. Yes there is. For once, I can prevent it. I can stop it before it happens." Roughly brushing away his tears, he gazed down at Gina a moment, then gently left a kiss upon her cheek. She didn't stir. "This time I can stop it first," he whispered, backing away.

"Hey, hey now…" Rhonda said, alarmed.

Newsie jumped down from the chair, heading for the door, not allowing himself to look back. If he looked back, he might lose what little determination he had right now. "Goodbye, Rhonda. Thanks for your help."

"What? Goodbye? Hey!" Rhonda hopped down as well, hurrying around in front of him. "Where are you going?"

"Away," he said harshly, pushing her aside and opening the door.

"Away? _Away_ ain't any country I ever heard of! Do they speak _sanity_ in Away?" Rhonda snapped, following him.

The Newsman whirled on her, feeling sick, but able nonetheless to manage his trademark glower at her. Rhonda stopped, startled. "You say you're a journalist? Then look at the facts! _I_ caused this. I have _no_ control over it. It will very likely happen again, and what if Gina is hurt worse? What if…" He choked to a halt, unable to voice his fear. Rhonda stared at him, silent. "I have to go."

As he turned, dizzy, and put a hand against the corridor wall to steady himself as he walked away, Rhonda protested, "Newsie, you moron! _She loves you!"_

Newsie stopped, eyes shut tight a moment, pain worse than the crushing blow earlier coursing through his chest. He couldn't reply. He forced his feet to move again, and continued down the hall, not caring if he was caught; being thrown out would only hasten his departure, and that had to be a good thing.

Behind him, Rhonda stared in mixed admiration and disgust. She winced as the stumbling Newsman tripped over a chair leg in the waiting area across from the nurses' station and was promptly set upon by the angry nurse on night duty and tossed off the ward. As his shriek echoed down the stairwell, Rhonda slipped under a nearby supply cart. She shook her head, sighed, and considered the whole screwed-up situation. Someone had to stop that idiot before he made the worst mistake of his life…well, maybe second-worst, after choosing journalism as a profession.

After a minute's careful deliberation, she scurried along the edge of the corridor, keeping to the shadows, mindful of Nurse Ratchet and the heavy forearm of doom. She had some news to deliver.

"Is this the building, Beaker?" Bunsen asked, checking the readout on the psychokinetic energy field detector. Beaker nodded, looking up at the rounded-off Art Deco corners on the higher levels. This reminded him of something. Small spotlights shone on the penthouse corners, a few floors above the ninth, and with a squint, Beaker could make out the statues they illuminated. Not statues – gargoyles! He gulped anxiously. Well, at least they wouldn't have to travel that high, would they? He counted the windows up to the gargoyles, relaxing a bit when he realized they were higher than Gina's apartment; the statues were in fact perched above the corners of the _thirteenth_ floor.

"Meep!" he cried, shaking. Bunsen looked at him, then up where Beaker's frightened stare remained. Frowning, Bunsen tweaked the controls on the psychokinetic energy field detector.

"Hmmm…that's very odd…"

"Mee?" Beaker looked down at the readout, though he couldn't see the screen from that angle.

"Well, according to this, the girders of Miss Broucek's apartment building are reinforced titanium, with a core of pure selenium!"

 _"_ _Meeeee!"_ Beaker squealed, shuddering backwards.

Bunsen laughed loudly. "Oh ho ho! Oh, Beaker, honestly! You're so gullible sometimes!" As his assistant gave him a startled look, Bunsen shook his head. _"Nobody_ builds them that way! Oh, that was most amusing. Tsst, tsst sst!" Beaker realized he'd been duped, and glared at Bunsen. "Oh ho ho. You should have _seen_ your face just now! Come on, Beakie. Let's go deliver the good news!"

Grumbling to himself, Beaker followed the happy scientist. Honeydew hadn't been through a whirlpool and a face-swapping dimension today! "Mee mee meep mee mee," he muttered under his breath as they entered the lobby.

"What's that, Beakie?" Bunsen murmured absently. "But you didn't lose an eye, you lost a _nose_ , and I don't understand what fun and games have to do with it! Ninth floor, correct?"

Sighing, Beaker gestured at the elevator. When it opened for them, he stepped in next to Bunsen. The doors closed before either of them noticed the frondy fake plant in the lobby corner shaking and growing eyestalks…

The doorbell rang insistently. Irritated, Kermit tied the sash of his bathrobe as his feet flapped down the broad stairs of the townhouse in his favorite slippers; though the place was nicely heated, these marble floors Piggy loved so much could be awfully cold on cool spring nights. _Bing-bong, bing-bong, bing-bonnnnggg…_ "I'm coming!" Kermit yelled. Who on earth would be ringing their bell at this hour? Wasn't it past midnight? He and Piggy had turned in around ten, and although Piggy had done her best to take her frog's mind off the tragedy of the day, he still felt horrible. Some rude person insisting on an audience this late did not encourage a better mood.

Kermit made sure the porch light was turned on, and peered through the beveled glass window at the side of the elegant front door. He didn't see anyone. Muttered voices outside complained, "He ain't comin'. Look, let's just forget it, all right?"

"Shut _up,_ Rizzo, and hold still!"

As the bell rang again, Kermit unlocked and opened the door. He found himself eye to eye with that cute blonde rat whom he'd seen around the theatre a few times. She was perched on top of Rizzo's shoulders, and Rizzo was standing on the back of a larger, musclebound rat. "Oh! Kermit! Hi!" the blonde squeaked. "Hey, sorry to disturb you at home and all, but –"

"Oof!" The ratpile wobbled and tumbled, spilling the blonde into the foyer.

Kermit looked at them all quizzically. "What is it?"

"Hi, Rhonda Rat; can we come in? Thanks," the blonde said rapidly, getting to her feet and trotting inside before an objection could be voiced. Rizzo staggered upright, groaning. The beefy rat who'd been the bottom of the stack stood there, looking impressed at the view of the wide foyer, which Piggy had decorated at great expense just last year after claiming the previous antiques were simply _tres_ unfashionable now…despite the fact she'd bought them only the year before. Even so, Kermit doubted selling _all_ of it would raise enough to fix the theatre.

"Nice digs," the larger rat said, sounding uncannily like Stallone.

"Uh, thanks," Kermit said, looking confusedly from him to Rhonda, who was standing in the middle of the foyer, looking around with the eye of a pro.

"Louis the Sixteenth crossed with Piet Mondrian, huh? Little gaudy for my taste, but hey, it's all the rage in the designer mags." She turned to face Kermit again. "Listen, I know it's late, and I am really, really sorry about this, but it's kind of an emergency."

Sighing, Kermit beckoned the others inside, closing the door behind them against the chilly, wet night. "Well, it had better be. I know you must know what kind of day it's been already."

"Kermit, it's the Newsman. He's—"

"He's the guy who wrecked our theatre!" Kermit said, throwing his arms up in the air. "I know! Some kind of energy field. I was there, I heard Bunsen, I got sucked into the black dimension of unpleasant cosmetic alterations! What _else_ is new?"

Rhonda shook her head. "It's worse than that."

Kermit groaned. "How could anything be worse than that? Didn't you see that enormous hole in our stage?"

Rizzo stepped up. "It's Gina. His girl. She's in the hospital." Nothing less than that would have convinced the displeased rodent to accompany Rhonda on this mission. After all, the nice young woman had given him food three times without him even having to steal it.

"What?" Kermit asked, taken aback.

"Kermie? Who is it?" Piggy's voice came from the top of the stairs. Everyone looked up to see the diva in a gorgeous satin robe over a satin gown with satin slippers, all embroidered with lace and pearls and a feather marabou trim, all of a lush champagne hue. Kermit frowned. When he'd left the bedroom, she'd been wearing next to nothing. Daintily, Piggy came down the stairs as though she was making an entrance in a musical about Parisian salons…until she saw the rats. She halted, her sweet expression turning dour. "Oh. Why'd you let _them_ in?"

"There was an accident at the Sosilly Theatre tonight," Rhonda continued as if Piggy hadn't interrupted. "Gina was hurt, but it could've been a lot worse! Newsie broke her fall and then took more damage on purpose to prevent a piece of the lighting grid from hitting her!"

Kermit stared at her. He'd never thought the Newsman would deliberately put himself in harm's way, considering all the painful things which already tended to happen to him.

"That redheaded girl? Is she badly hurt?" Piggy asked, coming the rest of the way down the stairs. Concerned, she took Kermit's arm. Kermit stroked her sleeve reassuringly, then shook his head gently at Rhonda.

"Well, I'm…I'm very sorry to hear that. Is there anything we can do?"

"You can call everyone and get them to help search for the Newsman! He's not thinking clearly, and he's run off because he thinks he caused the accident!" Rhonda squeaked.

Piggy and Kermit traded a look. "Sounds reasonable to me," Piggy muttered.

Rizzo sighed. "Piggy –" She glared at him. He amended, _"Miss_ Piggy, I hear ya. Believe me, no one knows better than me what a jinx that guy is. But Gina's nice! She doesn't deserve to have her heart broken as well as half her body parts!"

Kermit gulped. "Half her…?"

"It's not that bad," Rhonda said hurriedly. "Couple'a bashed-up ribs, some bruises. Few weeks' rest and she'll be fine. Look, I know everyone seems to think Newsie's a jinx. Heck, he thinks so himself! That's why he ran! He said he can't be around her because something worse might happen, even though he loves her!"

"He…" Piggy blinked, taking that in. "He loves her?" She leaned over to stare eye-to-eye at Rhonda. "This _is_ the same yellow nerd we're talking about, right?"

"The one and only," Rizzo muttered, shaking his head.

"Hey, he took a hit for her. Ya gotta respect that," Bubba spoke up. "Even if he is a nerd…guy's got moxie." Rizzo nodded agreement grudgingly.

Kermit sighed. "Well, be that as it may, I honestly don't see what we can do about it. We'd be happy to help Gina with anything she needs, but as far as the Newsman goes, even Dr Honeydew failed in an attempt to cure him of this…jinx, or whatever it is! I'm sorry this has all happened, and I know…" He looked at Piggy, who was biting her lip, her gaze sad, clearly rethinking her own position on the Muppet she'd so recently pounded. Swallowing back a little guilt himself, Kermit finished, "I know the Newsman didn't intend for anything bad to happen. He's not a bad person at all. But what you've just said confirms it: he's dangerous, and he can't help it. What are we supposed to do about something like that?"

Rhonda looked at all of them. Bubba stared at the floor, shaking his head. Rizzo was nodding at Kermit resignedly. Piggy seemed upset, but had nothing to say, and Kermit looked too down and helpless to muster any strength. Angry suddenly, Rhonda stomped her foot hard, loud enough to startle everyone. _"Look_ at all of you! My gosh, I am ashamed of you all!" Affronted, all of them glared at her, but before anything could come out of anyone else's mouth, Rhonda snapped, "Here I thought the Muppets were supposed to be such a wonderful group, always helping each other out, always standing together in adversity!"

"Where we standin'?" Bubba asked in a low voice.

Rizzo shrugged. "Man, _I_ dunno. Just let her get it outta her system."

"Wow, I'm sure glad _I'm_ not a member of the Muppet Theatre! Boy, would I feel down, would I feel _betrayed,_ if something awful happened to me and my supposed _friends_ just turned their backs!" Rhonda said, her voice rising.

"Now wait just a minute!" Kermit replied heatedly. "All I did was suspend him! He _quit!_ He caused all that horrible wreckage, all that chaos, and then he quit! This is the worst thing that's ever happened to the Muppet Theatre, and the Newsman walked away!"

"Yeah, and you know _why?"_ Rhonda yelled back. Rizzo and Bubba leaned away from her, alarmed. "Any of you _talked_ to him about it? Any of you ever ask him to go bowling with ya, or include him in a party that wasn't work-related, or just give him aspirin after something fell on him? Huh? No! _None_ of you _ever_ have! That's why he quit, and that's why he just left that hospital convinced he doesn't have a friend in the world! 'Cause as far as I can see here, he _doesn't!"_

"Wuh…we…that's not true," Kermit said, stunned. Piggy's mouth was hanging open. "We've included him, haven't we, Piggy? He was always too busy to attend things, I heard! Right?" He turned to Piggy.

Piggy stared at him, speechless a moment. "Ah…aha, ha, ha," she laughed lightly. "Ah. Uhhhmm…yes?"

Rizzo shook his head. "What about that New Year's bash you held here this last time? I thought you told the DJ it was okay to play old disco tunes because you'd purposely left the geek off the guest list, so he wouldn't embarrass you by trying to dance after the punch got spiked like at the last event at the theatre!"

"Grrrr!" Piggy growled, shaking. "I thought I left _you_ off the list as well, you little food thief, after you ate all the brie crackers last time! What were you doing under the…" She suddenly realized everyone was staring at her. "Ah…I mean…aha ha ha…"

Kermit gave her an unhappy look. Oh, she hated that look. It always made her feel soooo guilty… "Piggy? You…you left the Newsman off the guest list?" He thought about it; he couldn't recall a party in quite some time, or an outing, or a reception for a guest star on the show, at which he'd seen the Newsman. He'd assumed the always-serious Muppet preferred to spend his free time reading news journals, or something. "How…how many times?"

Rizzo snickered. "Not that I blame ya…" Rhonda thwapped him over the head. "Oww! Knock it off!"

Piggy looked away. Kermit took her hands gently. Oh, she hated it when he did the soft, wounded thing. She felt like such a heel. She looked into his eyes and burst into an explanation. "Kermie! It wasn't as though he was even going to come! He hardly ever did for years, and then when he _did_ bother to grace us with his boring presence, Pepe or _someone,"_ (she glared at Rizzo) "would sneak something into his punch so he'd make a fool of himself on the dance floor! I just thought…just thought it would be easier if…" She trailed off as her frog shook his head at her. "Okay, okay, I'm _sorry,_ all right? But you have to admit, the New Year's party was a lot more fun…until the darned penguins crashed it and tore the drapes…"

"Piggy…we don't leave our friends out," Kermit admonished gently.

Rizzo sighed. "Even if they're no fun until you slip 'em a Mickey."

Bubba gave him a puzzled look. "Mickey? Yeah, he seems like a fun guy. He come to the parties too?"

"Well, Gonzo hangs with him sometimes, he claims –"

"Well?" Rhonda interrupted.

Kermit sighed, considering it. As low as he himself felt with the theatre ruined, he couldn't imagine how much worse it would be if he didn't have the other Muppets to turn to. He looked at Piggy. "Kermit," Rhonda said, quietly, "he really believes none of you like him. Gina told me so. He thinks you all laugh at him. She's the first person who's ever talked with him about it. She's crazy about the guy."

"Crazy is right," Rizzo muttered, and ducked before Rhonda could club him again. "Ha haa!" he taunted her, but then Bubba smacked the back of his head. He slumped on the floor, groaning.

"Ya don't riff on love," Bubba said firmly.

"All right," Kermit said, nodding slowly. "We'll see if we can find him and convince him to stay…but that still leaves the problem of the jinx! I don't want any of us in danger. Gina either."

Rhonda sighed. "Yeah, I don't have an answer there either. But there must be _something_ we can figure out."

 _Sure, and the Muppet Theatre will be fixed overnight, too,_ Kermit thought, but he shrugged. "One issue at a time, I guess. You're right, Rhonda. The Newsman's been a part of the Muppets since the beginning, almost; he shouldn't walk away thinking we don't want him!" He turned to Piggy. "Piggy, get your cell phone. You call everyone on your girls' night list; I'll call Scooter and Fozzie and Gonzo, and Scooter can get hold of everyone else. All right?"

"Yes! I will call them all, and wake them up, and tell them…ah…tell them a dear friend needs our help!" Piggy said, nodding determinedly. She kissed Kermit and then hurried up the stairs.

"Eeesh," Kermit muttered, shaking his head.

"We'll start searchin' by the hospital," Bubba offered. "I'll round up the guys."

"I'll call the airport and the train station," Rhonda agreed. "I have a couple of sources there. Maybe someone's seen him. Oh – and I'll check Gina's apartment. He might've gone back there to pick up his things." She sighed. "Assuming he even got that far…but at the least, maybe I can get some personal items for Gina and take them back to her."

"Ugh…okay…I'll come with ya," Rizzo said, getting to unsteady feet. "That sounds less painful." He shot an annoyed glance at Bubba.

"Okay, then," Kermit nodded. "Why doesn't everyone check back here in half an hour, unless they find the Newsman before that?" He opened the door again for the rats, and went to his study to get on the phone. Maybe he _had_ been too harsh on the Newsman. After all, the unlucky journalist wasn't _trying_ to cause harm…or be the death of the party. With a heavy sigh, he dialed Scooter's number first.

Lefty hadn't scored a nickel in _hours._ He thought he saw one shining in a sewer grate back in the off-off-Broadway district, but it turned out to be only a shiny gum wrapper washed there by the rain. Disgusted, he kicked a crumpled soda can along the gutter. _Man, what I needs right now is a class-A mook,_ he thought. _An' da frickin' rain, cleanin' da whole town off, makin' it harder on honest guys like me to oin a livin', like, by drivin' offs alla da simps and dumb boids…riiiight. Makin' everthin' all shiny, like, a…a…shiny… like a nickel!_ His head jerked up, looking around wildly. "Nickel? Where?"

Nothing. Sighing heavily, he kicked the can onto the sidewalk just as a short guy came around the corner. The clumsy geek, not walking all that steady to begin with, tripped on the can and tumbled into the gutter, his big ugly glasses flying off. "Ungh," the guy groaned. He saw Lefty. "Ex…excuse me…could you help me? I lost my glasses…I think…" He squinted fuzzily at the ground. "No…that _is_ even blurrier. I definitely…definitely lost them."

Lefty cocked his head to one side, studying the mook. Though oddly yellow-colored, his skin was unblemished, his hair unfashionably short, and his half-buttoned sports coat straight outta the audience of "Let's Make a Deal." Hmm…that gave Lefty an idea. "Say, buddy," he said, sidling closer, "I gotta, whatchacallit, a propositioning for ya!"

The yellow mook peered blearily at him. "What? Oh! Oh, no, no! I, uh…I'm afraid I don't, ah, swing that way, sir." He staggered to unsteady feet. "Though…though I suppose I ought to be flattered. That's very nice of you." He gulped, weaving, hands outstretched on the air for improbable balance. "Could you…could you just help me find my glasses?"

"Your glasses? Oh…riiiight! Ya know, I tink I seen 'em around, maybe. What's it woith to ya?"

The mook gave him a dirty look. _"Payment?_ Fine, fine, all right! How about a dollar?"

Lefty considered it. "How many nickels is dat?"

"Uh…eighteen. No, wait. Twenty." He smiled abashedly. "I'm sorry. My mind's not…not too steady right now. I don't think I should've taken those…"

Lefty stepped backward to avoid the wobbling geek, in case he fell that direction. Something crunched under his shoes. Glancing down, he saw the hornrimmed specs smashed. "Tell ya what. I guess I was wrong. I don't sees em nowheres now! But, ah…hows about I helps ya out? Ya know, like dat whatchacallit…da Good Sumerian. Riiiight." He was already eyeballing the guy's pants, trying to judge which pocket he kept his wallet in. Maybe it was in the ugly jacket?

"Oh! Oh thank you, that's very…kind of you…" the yellow guy gulped, looking sad. "Very kind…"

Impatient, Lefty stepped up, taking hold of the guy's arm. "So where is youse goin's, anyways?"

"Away…far away. As far away as I can get, thank you."

 _Wow._ Dis _guy took da cake an' da ice creams too. Drank too many triple cream sodas, maybe._ "So youse need ta get ta da train stations, den?"

The mook brightened. "That's a great idea! Yes, the train station! Grand Central, here we come!"

"Hey, now whadda coinkydink! It just so happens I am a travel agents…riiiight!"

"Really? That is…that _is_ lucky…" The guy laughed, but he didn't sound happy.

"Lefty!"

"What?"

"I'm Lefty, ya mook. Lucky's my brudder!"

"Oh…I'm sorry…my mistake…"

Frustrated, Lefty ceased trying to frisk the mook. He couldn't feel a wallet anywhere he'd want to actually touch. That meant a little, whatchacallit, _discretin's_ was in oider… "Sure, sure, we's all pallys here, right? Riiiight. So howsabout you tells me where ya wants to go, and I'll, uh, I'll _extenuates_ ya dere?"

"I don't know," the mook said. He dug a battered leather wallet out of his front pants pocket; Lefty was dismayed at how thin it looked. The guy pulled a handful of bills out and handed them to Lefty. Just handed 'em over! Lefty stared at him. The mook gazed solemnly back, still weaving a little. "How far will that get me, Mr Lefty?"

"Uh….errr…well, I tink dis much can gets ya twenny-toid class ta Pittsburgh," Lefty offered, wondering when the next western express train departed. Experience had taught him that even the most stonkered sucker eventually woke up, and the further away from _him_ they woke up, the better.

"Okay," the mook said, nodding tiredly. "Pittsburgh. Sounds good. Okay. Lead on," he giggled suddenly, drawing a wary stare from Lefty. "Lead on, MacDuff! And darned be he who first cries _hold, enough!_ Hee hee hee!"

"My name ain't MacDuff," Lefty growled, taking the idiot's elbow and tugging him along. "Mook."

"Then you're of woman born? I wouldn't have guessed! Ha, ha, ha!"

Disgusted, Lefty stomped the guy's foot. He staggered but seemed oblivious to the pain. "Geez. All da mooks in da city, I hafta land da _stupidest_ one…" Already planning ahead to what schemes the easy cash might finance, Lefty dragged his mark toward Grand Central Station and the first train heading out anywhere.

Rhonda hung up her cell phone, sighing. "That was Kimmie at the airport. She'll put the word out, but she hasn't seen anyone who looks like Newsie."

Rizzo snorted. "Anyone who looks _like_ him? Could there be more than one? Perish da thought!"

Rhonda was about to snap something in reply when they both heard the screams. Looking up at the stairs to Gina's apartment building, they saw Dr Honeydew running out the front door, shouting, "Help! Help! Monsters!"

Beaker backed out the door, doing his best to whap a decorative urn at some kind of large, green, frondy thing with multiple lobsterish eyeballs, attempting to beat it back into the lobby, meeping frantically. Honeydew saw the rats and hurried down to them, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Oh! Oh! Don't go in there! The psychokinetic energy is still strong enough to animate harmless objects! It attacked us as we stepped out of the elevator!"

"Psycho is right!" Rizzo exclaimed, staring up at the snarling plastic plant-monster.

"What…the heck…is that?" Rhonda asked, stunned.

Breathless, Honeydew tried to explain. At the top of the stairs, the frondy thing grabbed the urn away from Beaker and began banging it over the top of his head, making his face collapse into his coat-collar with every pounding. "Well, you see, Miss Rat, Rizzo: the psychokinetic energy field which has been affecting the theatre lately has been caused by the unfortunate confluence of similar preexisting energy fields which both the Newsman and Miss Broucek had. When their, er, fields were… _combined_ … ahem," he blushed, "It created a new, and far more dangerous energy signature!"

"Meeeep!" Beaker cried, struggling to free himself from the frondy thing's grasp. It opened wide a green, jagged maw and started dragging Beaker inexorably toward it.

"So…it's not really Newsie? It's _both_ of them?" Rhonda asked.

Rizzo stared at her. "You _understood_ all that?"

She shot him a snooty look. "Three months' internship at _Scientific Rodent,_ thankyouverymuch."

"Yes, yes, precisely!" Honeydew said, nodding. "We have invented a specific-field-signature-tuned wearable device, which we were bringing to Miss Broucek! It should cancel out _her_ side of the psychokinetic field equation, which then ought to bring down the Newsman's energy in turn, back to his _normal_ levels! However, when we arrived here…" Honeydew turned around, finally seeing Beaker kicking his legs at the frondy thing's mouth, meeping in terror, as it repeatedly tried to shove him into its jaws. "Beaker! Stop playing with that thing! You don't know where it's been!"

"But Gina ain't here," Rizzo said.

"She's at St Pancreas' Hospital," Rhonda added. "There was an accident at her theatre tonight! Newsie thinks _he_ caused it!"

"Oh! Oh, dear! She seemed a very nice young lady! She isn't badly hurt, is she?" Honeydew asked, worried. Beaker managed to grab one of the frondy thing's bobbing eyeballs-on-an-orange-stalk and shove it into the thing's mouth. With a gargled howl, it let go, and Beaker tumbled, regained his footing, and pounded feet down the stairs. The frond-monster gave up, shuffling back through the lobby doors. Panting, Beaker stopped by the other Muppets on the sidewalk in front of the building. Honeydew gave him a frown. "Beaker! Miss Broucek isn't here! She's been hospitalized!"

"Muh?" Beaker gasped.

"She's gonna be okay, just very bumped and bruised right now," Rhonda told them. "I'm trying to find the Newsman. You guys haven't seen him, have you?"

"No, dear me," Honeydew said. Beaker shook his head. Honeydew turned to his assistant. "We should go to St Pancreas at once, and give the wearable device to Miss Broucek! Then when the Newsman is found and brought to her, the concurrent field effect should reduce his Mumford Scale level, and stop more things like that horrible creature in the lobby from animating!"

"Wait," Rizzo said, confused. "So…the geek's not even _here,_ and his psychowhatever is makin' things turn into _monsters?"_

"The field amplifies his own subconscious fears," Honeydew replied. "Hence, the whirlpool at the Muppet Theatre today. I suspect the Newsman has been feeling as though his life was out of control, or going down the drain, so to speak…tsst, sst!"

"But monsters?" Rizzo demanded. "What do they symbolize, oh Sigmund Frood?"

"Meep me," Beaker said, shivering as he glanced back at the quiet front door.

Honeydew adjusted his spectacles, surprised. "Oh, they don't symbolize anything! The Newsman suffers from monsterphobia! I once gave him some of our patented Monster Repellent for it." He nodded happily. "You know, there's an idea! We could isolate the anti-monster factor into a vitamin form, and distribute it to every monsterphobic as a daily supplement! I theorize that, with enough long-term consumption…"

Beaker tapped his shoulder. "Meep Meena!"

"Oh! Oh yes, I almost forgot! You're right, Beakie! We need to get the device to Miss Broucek! Come along…"

The rats watched the scientists heading off. Rizzo shook his head. "Ya know, those guys get weirder every year," he muttered.

Rhonda's phone rang. "Hello? Buffy! Yeah, yeah…what? You're sure? Yellow? Okay, we'll be…he _what?_ Oh, no…we'll be right there! Get 'em to hold the train!" She paused. "Heck, _I_ don't know! Get Georgie to pop up in the diner car or something! Just stall it!" She shut the call off. "Rizzo! Newsie's at Grand Central, getting on a train for Pittsburgh!"

"Why would _anybody_ want to go to Pittsburgh? Even him?" Rizzo wondered.

"Who cares? Come _on!"_ Rhonda squeaked, waving her arms as a yellow cab passed. She gave out an ear-piercing whistle. "Hey! _Taxi!"_

It took both of the rats threatening the cabbie, one on his shoulder and one on his lap, but eventually they reached the station. Rhonda led the way to the Spamtrak terminals. "Track eight, track eight, Rizzo, do you see a track eight anywhere? The board said track eight was the Smoketown Express…"

"Is that it?" Rizzo pointed at a train powering up, the porters going along the outside of the cars, shutting the passenger doors.

"Ohmygosh ohmygosh _stop!"_ Rhonda yelled, running alongside it as fast as she could, looking up into the windows of the coach cars. She didn't see a yellow Muppet anywhere.

"Uh, I think we're too late," Rizzo said, stopping, out of breath. Before Rhonda could yell at him for giving up, he pointed at the storage berth on the underside of the diner car. Among the crates and cases of bottled water sat a dejected-looking, rumpled, yellow-skinned Muppet with a long nose and wide chin, sans glasses. A luggage tag was tied to his left arm.

"Oh, crud! _Newsie! Newsie, stop!"_ Rhonda shouted. His head raised slightly, hearing her, and he peered in her direction, right before the porter tossed a large heavy bag of kitchen supplies in on top of him and slammed the berth door down, latching it. With a whistle and a thrum of power, the train began moving. Quickly it picked up speed, leaving the rats easily behind. "Oh, no. Oh, man," Rhonda gasped, slowing to a halt, staring after the vanishing express down the tracks.

Rizzo shook his head. "Next stop, Pittsburgh…if he doesn't get used as some kid's pillow pet first," he sighed.


	31. Chapter 31

The admitting nurse barely glanced up as two men in white lab coats trotted hastily past the front desk. "Mee mee meep mee?" Beaker asked, tapping Bunsen's shoulder, looking around bewildered at the multiple corridors and signs in every direction.

"Good point, Beakie!" Bunsen agreed. He stepped up to the desk, standing on tiptoe and clinging by his fingertips to see the nurse sitting there. "Excuse me, Nurse! Can you please tell us what room Miss Gina Broucek is in?"

"Uh…of course, Doctor," the nurse said uncertainly, standing and looking down at them. Beaker waggled his fingers hopefully at her. She hadn't been aware any intern teams would be working the graveyard shift, but… Checking the admitting database, she told them, "Room three-twelve." As the short doctors thanked her and started off, she called after them, "Uh…should I tell Doctor Foreman you're here?"

"Oh no, we'll be fine, thank you!" Bunsen called back.

"Mee mee!" Beaker echoed. He waggled his fingers bye-bye at the nurse as they got into the elevator. "Mee meep!"

"You see, Beaker? Good manners opens many doors," Bunsen said primly as the elevator closed. Beaker nodded.

The night nurse for the convalescent ward didn't share that opinion. "Where's your IDs?" she demanded.

"Oh! Well, you see, Nurse…ah…Ratchet, I'm Dr Bunsen Honeydew of Muppet Labs, and this is my colleague, Bea—"

"That's _Rah-chey!_ And drug reps are only allowed on the floor during normal hours!" the nurse snapped, coming out from behind her desk. Beaker cringed; the nurse was built like a gorilla, only less hairy. "Now you two are just going to have to come back in the morning!"

"Oh, we're not with a drug company!" Bunsen tried to explain.

"Mee mo mugg mummy!" Beaker assured her, waving his hands.

"You see, we're friends of Miss Broucek's, and we need to deliver this psychokinetic energy field wearable modulator device to her at once!" Bunsen said, holding up the copper necklace. He jumped back, startled, when the nurse tried to grab it away from him.

"I don't care _what_ kind of bribes you people are giving out with your darned experimental colon-cleaners, you can _come back,"_ she growled, grabbing Beaker by one arm and lifting him bodily off the floor, _"in the morning!"_

 _"_ _Meeeeeee!"_ The nurse swung him back along the corridor toward the elevator.

"Oh! Oh my!"

The nurse lunged for Bunsen. He ducked, running behind the nurses' station. Beaker staggered dazedly back just as Nurse Ratchet went after Bunsen, and she plowed over the lab assistant, tripping and grabbing at a shelf full of small supplies as she fell. Boxes of cotton balls, Q-tips, sterile bandages and new IV needles went flying. _"No visitors after nine p.m!"_ the nurse bellowed, stumbling after Bunsen as he hurried around the other side of the station, his head bumping a hinged counter as he went, swinging it down so the nurse ran stomach-first into it. She let out an enraged roar.

"Beaker! Do something!" Bunsen cried, continuing around in a terrified circle.

"Meemee?" Beaker asked, slowly wobbling upright again just as the nurse charged after Bunsen; she stomped on Beaker again, again tripping on him. The elevator opened with a _ding,_ and a tired orderly pushed a cart with stacks of lukewarm Jell-O cups ahead of himself just as the nurse regained her footing and lunged after Bunsen. With a crash, the cart toppled, sending lime green Jell-O everywhere. "Meeeee…" Beaker groaned, rising shakily.

"No! No! This is why I went into lab science instead of medicine! Oh, heeellllp!" Bunsen shrieked, running past the nurses' station again.

Beaker shook his head, meeped in fright, and tried to get out of the way as the chase bore down on him once more.

Kermit sat in the living room, staring glumly at the up-to-the-second news. He'd been keeping an eye on it for almost half an hour, and he'd seen nothing to indicate the whereabouts of the Newsman, although a small fire and the partial collapse of the grid at the Sosilly was covered, with the reporters making the inevitable comparisons to the earlier catastrophe at the Muppet Theatre. Seeing that depressed Kermit even more. He glanced up when Scooter handed him a fresh cup of chicory-centipede coffee, nodding thanks. Scooter sighed. "I've heard from Rowlf and Gonzo now. Rowlf hasn't seen anything, and all Gonzo found was a bagpipe-playing sheep at a subway station; he wants to know if you'd like to book her for the show."

Kermit scowled at him. Scooter swallowed and nodded. Into the phone, he said, "Uh, that's a negative on the sheep. Thanks, Gonzo." He hung up and sat down next to Kermit on the sectional sofa. "Gee, boss. Who woulda thought the Newsman would cut and run like that? He was always so dependable."

Sighing, Kermit sipped his coffee before replying. He felt he might need all the extra energy he could get before the night was through. "Maybe that's just it, Scooter. We all just…depended on him. We took him for granted. He was always there. I never realized how alienated he felt."

"Aliens? Oh, Kermit, do you think he went with Gonzo's family?" Fozzie asked, looking hopeful briefly. Everyone had agreed the bear would be better at helping to answer phones at the townhouse rather than out searching the streets.

"No, Fozzie. I don't think so."

Piggy walked over slowly, sitting on Kermit's other side. Neither said anything, just exchanging a look. Then Kermit took her hand and they held on, each taking comfort from the other's small touch. Piggy sighed. "Um…I really am sorry, Kermie."

"I know you are, Piggy. It's not your fault…alone," Kermit said, making Piggy brighten and then frown. "We all should have tried a little harder to make the Newsman feel included. Who knows? Maybe what's happened to him lately is a result of years and years of feeling unwanted."

"I was gonna run away once, when I thought you guys didn't want me," Fozzie remembered.

Kermit nodded. Scooter spoke up hesitantly, "So…what about the jinx? Has anyone figured out what to do about that, so he doesn't bring what's _left_ of the theatre down?"

"There's always cold storage," Piggy muttered. When Kermit shot her a scowl, she gave him her best innocent eye-flutter.

Scooter's cell rang. "'Scuse me," he said to Kermit, and answered the call. "Hello? Oh, hey, Rh—what? He's where? _Pittsburgh?"_ The gofer exchanged a puzzled look with the others. "Uh, okay…sure…I'll call Floyd. The band's out searching in the bus. We can…what?" His eyes widened as he listened. "You mean all this time..? _Both_ of them? Oh, boy…" he sighed, and listened some more. Kermit, Piggy, and Fozzie all looked at one another worriedly. "Okay, I'll see if I can reach them! We'll meet you there!" Scooter hung up, apparently astounded.

"Well, what is it?" Kermit asked.

"Uh…boss? It really _isn't_ Newsie's fault! That was Rhonda. She met Dr Honeydew and Beaker a little while ago, and they told her they'd discovered both the Newsman _and_ his girlfriend are giving off some kind of energy field, and it's been the combination of _both_ of them that's been causing the weird News Flash backfires and the disasters at both theatres!"

"Wow," Fozzie gasped. "Who knew having a girlfriend could be so dangerous! Mom was right when she told me to be careful out there!"

"Fozzie, I doubt you'd have the same problem," Kermit advised.

"Who knew there were better reasons for him not to date than his plain _existence?"_ Piggy grumbled.

"So…does this mean the lab guys figured out a cure?" Kermit asked, hope rising.

Scooter shrugged. "Apparently so! They're on their way to the hospital to try it out!"

Fozzie put a paw to his mouth, worried. "Eeesh," Kermit groaned. "Okay, some of us better get over there and make sure whatever Bunsen's come up with doesn't work like his stuff usually does! What about the Newsman?"

"Oh, he's on a train to Pittsburgh," Scooter said. "Twenty-third class."

"Is dat worse than ninth?" Fozzie asked Kermit, recalling their plane trip to England.

Kermit nodded. "I think so, Fozzie. That might even be _under_ the train." He sighed, thinking about everyone out in the streets at the moment. "Okay…Scooter, have the Electric Mayhem swing by here right away! Fozzie, you call Gonzo, and you two head over to the hospital and find Bunsen and Beaker. Piggy, call the train station at Pittsburgh and get them to hold that train until we can get there!" Everyone nodded, hurrying on their assigned tasks. Piggy stopped, her sparkly phone in one hand, and leaned in to Kermit.

"Ah, Kermie? Where will _we_ be going?"

Kermit gave her that determined nod she usually loved, the one that made her melt at his take-charge attitude; she anticipated what he was about to say, however, and this time she wasn't pleased. "Piggy, _we_ are heading to Pittsburgh!"

"Great," she muttered, walking away. "What outfit do I own that says 'welcome back, geek'?"

Rizzo came scurrying up to the emergency entrance of St Pancreas just as Gonzo, Camilla, Pepe and Fozzie pulled up in a taxi. Gonzo paid the cabbie, and Rizzo called out to him: "Hey, buddy! Boy am I glad you guys are here!" He ran to meet them.

"Hey, we had to come check on the hottie, okay?" Pepe said. No one was sure who asked him to tag along.

Gonzo patted the rat's shoulder. "Rizzo! I thought you were with Rhonda?"

"Nah, she wanted to go to Pittsburgh. I am not going anywhere _near_ there! Do you _know_ what the alley cat population of dat place is?" He shuddered. As they headed toward the admitting lounge, he added, "Besides, I already seen tonight what those crazy lab geeks do to fake plants, and, well, I kinda like Gina…"

"Don't we all, amigo," Pepe murmured.

"What do dey do to fake plants?" Fozzie wondered.

Rizzo put out a hand at him. "Trust me, Fozzie. You don't wanna know."

"Wow, this seems like a big place," Gonzo mused, looking around at the waiting area. "Wonder how we're gonna find Gina?"

"Bawwk?" Camilla agreed, peering around the waiting area chairs.

"Why don't we ask dis nice lady?" Fozzie offered, and went up to the desk. "Excuse me, ma'am? We were wondering –"

"Fill this out, provide proof of insurance, name of emergency contact, method of payment if uninsured, and details of the complaint," the nurse said flatly, shoving a clipboard with numerous forms on it at the bear.

"But…no, no, you see, we're here to—"

"Are you bleeding?" the nurse asked, giving him a bored glance.

"Er…" Fozzie looked around at the others, who seemed equally puzzled. "No?"

"Then fill that out, have a seat, and wait until a doctor can see you." A paramedic walked through from another hallway, dropping another clipboard onto the nurse's desk.

"Here's the chart on that guy that claims his television set tried to eat him," the medic said, and the nurse turned to look over the paperwork.

"Sheesh. What'll they come up with next just to get a scrip?...Hey, you didn't fill out the two-ten-A," the nurse complained.

"The what?"

While the nurse and the medic argued, their backs to the Muppets, Pepe tugged on Rizzo's jacket. "Hurry up! _Vamanos!"_

Fozzie was engrossed in the admissions forms and didn't notice everyone was sneaking down the hallway until Gonzo hissed back at him, "Fozzie! Come on!"

As the bear stood and took a step toward his friends, the nurse suddenly turned and pointed a threatening finger at him. "Hey! No admissions 'til you finish the forms!"

"But…"

"No exceptions! Now sit!"

Sighing helplessly, Fozzie looked after the others, who scurried past a door and shut it before the nurse could look that direction. Resignedly he sat down, realized he had nothing to write with, and approached the nurses' desk again. She looked over unhappily when he interrupted her conversation with the medic. "Ah…excuse me. May I please borrow a pencil?"

She glared at him. He gave her his best embarrassed smile. "Aheh, heh…uh…hey, didja hear the one about the polar bear and the electrician?"

The elevator opened on the third floor, with Rizzo and Pepe in conference on which of them ought to break the news of Newsie's flight to Gina. "She is _not_ single now! Geez!" Rizzo said disgustedly.

"Hey, you said he _left,_ okay? That means 'back on the market' in _my_ book!" The two of them froze, the other Muppets crowding up behind them, at the scene which greeted them.

Dr Bunsen Honeydew hung desperately from an overhead tube-light fixture, crying out and straining to lift himself higher each time the most bulky woman any of them had seen (apart from Big Mama) took a swing at him with one hand. With the other, she was repeatedly hurling Beaker around by his hair; he shrieked wildly, flailing arms and skinny legs, and one of his shoes had already fallen off. The nurse's uniform was stained and one sleeve torn; Beaker had several IV needles sticking randomly from his face and arms; cotton balls tumbled from the top of the light fixture every time Bunsen shook it; and all of them were spattered with tiny bits of something green. Rizzo put out a paw and sampled a blob of the green stuff from the back of an unconscious orderly laying in front of the elevator. "Hmm. Lime! I prefer bananaberry," he said.

"What the heck?" Gonzo asked, eyes wide.

"Oh _mi cielito lindo!"_ Pepe gushed, staring at the nurse. "Hot mama, you are amazing!" The nurse stopped, confused, and Pepe hopped over to her, looking her up and down quickly from her size-eleven shoes to her tightly-pinned hair bun. "Have you ever considered putting on a mask and wrestling? I would be happy to represent you, okay?" Suddenly he was perched on the arm holding Beaker, making sexy eyes at her. "Just think about all of the moneys we could have, okay? And I will only take fifty per cent commission…"

"Aaaagh!" the nurse screamed, tossing Beaker and Pepe away and fleeing, leaping the spilled Jell-O cart to head for the stairs. The door to the stairwell slammed behind her.

"What? _What?_ Okay, forty-seven per cent!" Pepe yelled after her.

Gonzo shook his head. He helped Beaker to his trembling feet. "Are you guys okay?" Beaker stared at him, gasping, and Gonzo helpfully pulled out two of the long IV needles. "Uh, I think you're only supposed to have one of these at a time…"

"Oh, thank goodness you're here! We must get the psychokinetic energy field wearable modulator device to Miss Broucek!" Bunsen said, and let go of the light fixture.

"Yeah, yeah, Doc, we -urrrghh!" Rizzo coughed as Honeydew landed atop him.

"Which room is she in?" Gonzo asked.

"Wait, wait, I can tell," Pepe proclaimed, taking a deep and dramatic sniff of the air. "Aha! I smell red hair this way!"

"Nice try, Sherlock Bloodhound," Rizzo said, shaking his head. "Rhonda said it's three-twelve. Other way." As he pointed the correct way, a short man with fluffy red hair stuck his head out of another hospital room a few paces in the opposite direction.

He looked the group up and down once, then asked, "Mahna mahna?"

From the next room down, two Snowths popped out. "Doo doo, do _doo_ doo!"

"Yeah, good nose, genius. Dis way," Rizzo grumbled, heading off. They walked to the correct room, Bunsen brushing Jell-O off his coat, Beaker meeping in quiet pain as he pulled out the rest of the needles and tossed them aside. Gonzo gently knocked on the door.

"Uh, hello? Gina?" he said softly. No reply came. They all looked at one another, then Gonzo turned the handle and opened the door. Gina lay still in a high hospital bed, eyes closed, an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, the light blanket pulled up to her shoulders. A heart monitor beeped steadily. "Oh, man," Gonzo sighed sadly. Camilla clucked in sympathy, patting Gonzo's hand with a wing.

They dragged both of the hard chairs in the room next to the bed, the shorter Muppets climbing into them. Beaker and Bunsen stood at the foot of the bed. Beaker looked over Gina's chart. "Meep," he said quietly, showing it to Bunsen, who shook his head.

"So…do we wake her up?" Rizzo asked.

"Let me, let me," Pepe insisted, at once darting onto the bed and leaning over to put his face right next to hers. Carefully he lifted the oxygen mask.

"Oh, I don't think you should…" Gonzo began.

"Hhhello again, sexy mama," Pepe crooned. "Did you miss me?"

"Oh, brudda," Rizzo groaned.

Gina's nose wrinkled. She sniffed, and her eyes flickered open. "Ewww...why do I smell shrimp?" she muttered.

Pepe froze, stunned. Rizzo cackled. "Hey, looka that! She's got a better nose than _you_ do!"

"King Prawn, okay?" Pepe shouted.

"What…?" Gina blinked at them, her eyes focusing gradually. "What…what are you guys doing here?" Slowly she looked from one of them to another, taking in the room in growing panic. "Where's Newsie?"

Honeydew stepped closer. "Miss Broucek, we're terribly sorry you were injured! According to your chart here, you have several broken or cracked ribs, so I'd advise you not to move too much."

"Ow," Gina said, frowning as she felt what he was talking about. "Maybe not… But what's going on? What happened? Where's Newsie? Is he hurt?"

"He's…he's fine," Gonzo supplied, glancing at Rizzo, who looked worried.

Gina glared at them. "What _happened?"_

Rizzo sighed. "Well, from what I heard, you fell off a griddle or something –"

"The grid?" She thought about it. Her head ached. "But…the show was going…there was…" Suddenly an image of a light on fire came to her. "Oh! There was a fire! Oh no…" She looked worried at them all. "Don't tell me the Sosilly burned down!"

"Nah, nah. You just fell, they said," Rizzo said.

Gina looked at the IV and heart-monitor lines in her wrist, wincing; she hated needles. She realized the two scientists were looking at her a little fearfully, and her eyes narrowed at them. "What are you two doing here? Did you come to apologize for building that horrible machine?"

"Mee," Beaker said, starting back a step, recalling how she'd swung Fleet Scribbler around much as the nurse had been doing to him just a minute ago.

"Miss Broucek, we've come to give you some good news!" Bunsen answered. "It would seem the Newsman _isn't_ wholly to blame for the recent accidents and odd events lately! You see, our research shows –"

"Of _course_ he isn't!" Gina snapped, leaning forward instinctively and then regretting it. "Ohhh…ow…I _told_ you it wasn't his fault!"

"It was both of ya," Rizzo piped up. Gina looked at him in confusion.

"What?"

"You see…" Bunsen explained his convergent psychokinetic field catastrophe theory again. She stared at him as though he'd grown an extra head. Beaming, Honeydew finished, "And so we've invented _this,_ to block your signal, and hopefully reverse the effect you've had on the Newsman!" Shaking, Beaker handed her the psychokinetic energy field wearable modulating device.

Gina accepted it with a weak grip, looking it over. "It's a necklace," she said.

"Mee mee," Beaker said, raising his hands in a _and, so?_ gesture.

"It's charged ionically to your specific energy signature. It should cancel out the field you've been projecting, and bring the Newsman's energy back to his normal levels! Well…normal for him, that is," Bunsen explained.

Gina stared around at them. "Why isn't he here? What's happened? Is he okay?"

"He's in Pittsburgh," Rizzo said helpfully. "Well…nearly, anyways."

"What? Why would he go there?"

"See? Dat's what _I_ said," Rizzo poked Gonzo.

"You know, you are too good for him," Pepe said, leaning toward her again. "What kinds of a man runs away from such a hot babe? Now, if you were _my_ chica—waaaagh!"

Impatiently, Gina shoved the prawn off the bed, trying to sit up. Beaker found the button to raise the head of the bed and pressed it until she was able to see them all without straining. Bunsen patted his shoulder approvingly. "He thought you was getting hurt because of his jinx," Rizzo explained. "He saved you when you fell, but then he was so upset he took off. The rest'a the guys are going after him right now. They'll stop him…whether Piggy wants to or not…"

"But…" Gina took all that in as best she could, still feeling drowsy, and with most of her body pulsing in a dull ache.

"Put the modulator device on," Bunsen suggested. "Since your injuries are the indirect result of the unfortunate confluence of similar energies, the field cancellation may actually speed your recovery!"

Gina looked at all of them. Beaker nodded. Gonzo nodded, and patted her hand. Camilla clucked low from her perch on the side rail of the bed. Rizzo took off his hat and held it tight in anticipation. Pepe huffed, turning his back, standing on the high serving tray next to the other side of the bed. "Fine! Puts it on and go back to your fashion disaster boyfriend! I'm going into wrestling, anyway!"

Carefully, using only her right arm, wincing as she raised it, Gina draped the necklace over her head and settled the beads around her neck. Everyone was suddenly aware of a slight change in the air of the room, as though a ripple of breeze had just passed over everyone's skin. Weird though it felt, Gina had to admit to herself she immediately felt calmer. "Cooool," Gonzo murmured.

"Whoa, what was that?" Rizzo asked.

 _"_ _Un_ believable," Pepe muttered, still not looking at her. "She still wants the _jefe_ loser? Aaagh!" He shrieked as Gina shoved the tray-on-wheels, sending the prawn sprawling.

"I do speak a little Spanish," she warned him. "And Newsie is _not_ a loser." She turned her head to Rizzo. "Did you say he saved me?"

"Yep. Rhonda said he threw himself under ya, and then blocked the thing that fell on ya so you wouldn't be hurt as much."

Gina lay her head back on the lumpy pillow, feeling tears starting. "How…how bad was _he_ hurt?"

"Uh…I didn't hear all of it, but pretty bad, I think," Rizzo said.

Gonzo held her hand gently, noting the still-fresh scars on her palm from her rescue of the Newsman. "He's going to be okay, Gina. Kermit and the guys are all on their way to Pittsburgh right now to stop him and bring him home."

"Oh! We should tell them the wearable modular device is in place and operating smoothly!" Bunsen said.

"Moppermadin moovy!" Beaker echoed eagerly.

"Right, good idea," Gonzo nodded, pulling out his cell phone. Just then it went off, flashing a small light and playing a chorus of chickens bawking out the opening of "Thus Sprach Zarathustra." Camilla clucked a laugh. Gonzo answered it. "Uh...hello?" He realized abruptly everyone was staring at him, and looked confused. "What? It's my new recording demo… Oh, hi, Scooter! Yeah, we're there now. She's okay. The, uh…the lab thing seems to be okay, too. Where are you? Oh." His face fell. Covering the receiver a moment, he whispered to the others, "They got pulled over just off the bridge. Animal was hanging out the window of the bus."

Gina bit her lip, picturing the drummer hanging upside-down and trying to bite passing cars. "Yeah, we'll stay here until you can reach him. Thanks, Scooter." Hanging up, Gonzo smiled at Gina. "Don't worry. We'll find him."

"Mee mee," Beaker murmured, nodding.

Gina sighed, closing her eyes, worried but unable to move much. She couldn't feel whether Newsie was all right or not. She hoped the other Muppets would be able to find him before he did anything else foolish. _He saved me,_ she thought, both warmed and hurt by the idea. _At least they finally understand it wasn't his fault. Now_ he _needs to be convinced of that._ Sighing deeply, she tried to lie still, moving nothing.

"If we are going to be here all nights, can we at least watch the talk shows?" Pepe complained.

"I'm gonna go find the snack machine. Hey, buddy, willya gimme a hand?" Rizzo asked Gonzo.

"Sure, sounds good," Gonzo agreed, and the two of them patted Gina's arm lightly and then set off to forage. Beaker clicked on the TV remote, and he and Pepe fell to arguing over whether to watch "Robot Wars" or "Lingerie Showcase" on cable, the talk shows forgotten. Bunsen settled into a chair, smiling at Gina. She managed a smile back. She _did_ feel more relaxed, at least physically…but as she leaned back carefully, she wondered where her Newsie was, what he was feeling, and how long it would be before he was in her arms again.

The admitting nurse looked up, annoyed, as the bear returned to the desk for the fifteenth time. "What is it _now?"_ she demanded.

"Uh…I forgot…how do you spell 'laryngitis'?" Fozzie asked. The nurse glared. Fiddling nervously with his tie, Fozzie continued, "Uh…see…there was this one time, when I was a cub, see, and my Uncle Brewster got lost on his way to hibernate, yeah? And so I went out to find him, but I forgot to take my scarf, see, and…"

The nurse sighed. She'd had to listen to some family story or bad joke every time he'd come up to ask a question about something on the forms. "What page are you on?" she interrupted.

"What…? Oh. Uh…" He checked. "Page three!" He held up the clipboard. Ten more pages of red tape lay beneath the form the bear was currently working on. "I bet we'll be finished in another two or three hours, huh?" Fozzie asked brightly.

The nurse glared at him.


	32. Chapter 32

They'd managed to avoid being ticketed somehow, even after Animal ate the highway patrolman's ticket book; Kermit took cell phone photos of all of them with the cop and Piggy flirted a bit with him while she posted the pics to Facebook. _Thank goodness he's a fan,_ Kermit thought, waving goodbye with everyone else as the cop sped off on his motorcycle. Animal was scolded for trying to catch cars, and the Electric Mayhem broke into a spirited rendition of "Hold On (I'm Comin')" as the bus pulled back onto the New Jersey Turnpike. Piggy gave her frog's flipper a squeeze, and he sighed and leaned back in the stuffing-deprived seat.

"Feels kinda good to be on the road again, huh?" Scooter asked Kermit, checking all his mirrors. As cranky as this old bus was, he found he'd missed driving it.

"Yeah," Kermit agreed, nodding. "I wish the circumstances were different. How far to Pittsburgh?"

"Oh, another…five or six hours, maybe…"

"Great," Kermit sighed. There was no way he could even nap with the band playing so loud. Sitting there holding Piggy's hand, he thought about what Rhonda had explained to him as they disembarked an hour ago: how the simple fact of the Newsman's being involved with Gina apparently wreaked havoc on his own odd tendency to attract accidents, and the damage he'd unwittingly caused was only due to some energy _he_ had being influenced by someone else with similar energy…or something like that. Rhonda had promised him Honeydew could explain it more clearly, which Kermit doubted, but he understood the gist of it. Feeling sad and a little guilty still, he gazed out the dark window at the lights of towns skating by. Piggy gave his hand another squeeze.

"What is it, Kermie? You look a little down," she murmured to him.

Kermit sighed. "Well, I was just thinking…"

"Mm-hmm; what about?"

"About the Newsman and Gina," Kermit said. He pulled his fingers away to gesture out the window. "He's somewhere up ahead of us right now on a train, probably lonely and depressed, and convinced he _has_ to run away to protect Gina! I mean, just imagine…I'm pretty sure this is the first time he's _ever_ been in love – she's definitely the first girl who's ever been fascinated with _him_ – and he believes he has to stay away from her! I can't even imagine how awful he must feel right now." Kermit swallowed, shaking his head. "I mean…I know how _I'd_ feel, if something awful had happened to you, Piggy, and I thought I'd caused it! I'd hate to be…" He looked at Piggy. Her eyes were closed. She was humming faintly. "Piggy?"

"Hmmm?" Innocent blue eyes opened for him. She removed one of the earbuds of her iPig mup3 player. "I'm sorry, Kermie, did you say something?"

Kermit scowled, shaking his head. "Never mind!"

In the rear of the bus, Rhonda tried to use a couple of instrument cases to dampen the noise. "Marty? Marty, can ya hear me?" she squeaked into her cell phone. "Okay, listen: I have an exclusive on the Muppet Theatre catastrophe _and_ the Sosilly Theatre accident! I know the guy who caused 'em both! Yeah, turns out it wasn't even his fault; it's a long story and a really juicy one, lots of sex and discrimination… Yeah, I'm going to pick him up right now, but it may be a while. We're trying to catch him in Pittsburgh." She paused, listening as her editor gabbled at her with his usual about-to-go-to-press-on-the-morning-edition panic. "Well _I_ don't know why Pittsburgh! I'll ask him when we get there. Yeah. Yeah, I'll phone in the story. The guy's girlfriend is in the not-too-badly-hurt people's ward at St Pancreas, and we'll be bringing him back to her for the big tearful reunion soon as we can. Oh, and, uh…I'll be needing per diem on this one. What? Well I don't care what Rupert says! This is too good to miss, so you tell him the rat gets travel expenses, at least! Okay. Later." Hanging up, she settled into an empty guitar case in satisfaction. This was shaping up great! Newsie reunited with Gina; the dangerous energy stuff cancelled out through the wonder of modern science; and a lovely human-interest story to boost her out of the freelance-reviewer pay level to boot!

"Back in the game," she sighed happily, then yelled up at the musicians, "Hey! Anybody got any Cheez Doodlies?"

Gina sat at her Grandmama Angie's kitchen table, dutifully drinking her rosehip tea. Her grandmother watched her with a sharp eye but a faint smile, so Gina knew she wasn't in as much trouble as she'd thought. When she finished the tea, her grandmother nodded. "All right, now; let me see the leaves," she directed.

As she'd been taught, Gina put her saucer over the china cup and quickly flipped them over together, waited a couple of seconds, then lifted the cup away. She sat quietly, watching Grandmama Angie's face, as the old woman leaned over the table, peering through her tiny spectacles at the damp tea leaves and rosehip pieces spattered on the saucer. "Ohhhh…I see! Well now! Angelina, you have been very naughty! Oho ho ho!" the old woman chuckled.

Gina blushed. "Grandmama, I'm not six anymore. I don't go by that name now."

The old woman abruptly turned a scowl on her granddaughter. "What? So now my name isn't good enough for you? The name my own grandmother gave to _me,_ back in the old country?"

"Grandmama…" Gina groaned, pushing her hair back and rolling her eyes. They'd had this exact discussion so many times.

"Hmf! I see, I see how it is with you these days. Hanging around with those ugly boys with the tattoos and the earrings!"

"Grandmama…you told me Gandpappa had earrings and tattoos."

"What?" The old woman's gaze turned sharply to Gina, then slowly softened. She nodded. "Yes…yes he did. But that's different. He was _of the people."_

"Grandmama…I know this is a visit. I know I'm dreaming. What did you need to tell me?" Gina waited, both arms resting on the table. The kitchen was as her grandmother had left it, years back: it had far more herbs hanging in it, and the walls were plastered white, not golden. Still, it was nice to see the crusty old Gypsy again, and Gina's patience returned. She sat and studied her grandmother's round, worn face beneath her shawl, watched as wrinkled hands carefully touched the edges of the tea leaves on the saucer.

The old woman sighed. "You know how to read these."

Gina nodded, but looked at her grandmother, not at the saucer. "Rosehip tea is for love fortunes."

"Oh, so you _do_ remember some of what I taught you! I wonder sometimes, what with you running around in jeans with tools like some kind of _gadji_ mechanic!"

Gina sighed, slumping in her chair. _"Grand_ mama…"

"Fine, fine, I'm dead, it's not for me to judge, right?" The old woman stopped the scolding, looking at her granddaughter soberly. She sighed deeply. "Does he make you happy?"

"Yes he does. Very much."

"You know he's older than you. I'd be a poor matchmaker if I didn't warn you how—"

"I _know_ that! It doesn't matter!" Gina tried to suppress a sudden grin. "He certainly doesn't look that much older…or _act_ older…"

"Angelina!"

"Sorry…" Gina looked up apologetically. Her grandmother tried, but couldn't keep a smile from her own lips. After a moment, both women started snickering and snorting. The old woman burst into loud laughter, and then they were both smacking the tabletop with their hands, laughing so hard they had tears forming.

Gina wiped her eyes, looking sadly across at the tiny little woman, wondering again how she herself had ever grown from such a small-statured family tree. "Grandmama…I've missed you," she said quietly.

Her grandmother smiled, and touched her hand. Gina wrapped her fingers around the old woman's. Grandmama Angie sighed. "You really want to be involved with a Muppet? You know how easily duped they are, right? Who's to say some _gadji_ blonde won't turn his head and leave you alone and penniless?"

"Grandmama…I have my own income! And no. He won't do that. He's not like that."

The old woman sighed, shaking her head. "No, no, you're right…the boring ones don't go astray. Still, this whole business with his soul and yours being in conflict…I don't like it."

"The scientists said it was because our souls were so much _alike,"_ Gina argued.

"Scientists! Pah! What do _they_ know?" Grandmama Angie shook an angry little finger at the necklace around Gina's neck; it appeared now to be a wreath of roses. "You know what that foolish necklace they built is doing? Right now, is _doing!"_

Gina set her jaw. "I know it's going to keep him safe."

Grandmother and granddaughter glared at one another. Finally the old woman looked away, sighing. "My little fire…you've grown so much. I just…I only want for you to be happy. This is to be the last time we talk. This is to be your last knowing dream."

"What? Why?" Gina was startled. This same old woman had taught her how to listen to her dreams, how to recall them and use them; it had never occurred to her she might one day lose the gift.

Grandmama Angie gestured angrily at the necklace. "Because of _that!_ That _thing_ is like a wall between you and your gift, little fire! You will become like…like a tiny coal too small to even light a cone of incense! You will be…like them. The _gadjo._ Blind to this world, seeing only what your eyes can see." She stared seriously at Gina. "You won't be able to see what's coming at him."

Frightened, Gina touched the roses. Not be able to help Newsie? "But…but they said it would stop the bad things! They said it would make him able to be with me without causing more accidents!"

The old Gypsy nodded. "They're right about that one. He'll be what he always was, and you'll be…without the gift. Like your stupid cousin Ada, hah! Talk about unlucky! Oh, I warned your Aunt Majel it was a bad idea marrying that dry cleaner from Des Moines!"

"And…and what about his heart?" Gina asked softly, daring a glance at the tea leaves.

Grandmama Angie sighed. Then she smiled sadly, and put a hand on Gina's arm. "He has a good heart. You've given him back that. When I met him, he'd forgot what it even was! Pah! Too caught up in being boring and stupid with his all-so-important news things!"

"Wait…what?" Gina stared at her grandmother, wideyed. "When did you—"

"I have to leave now," her grandmother said. She reached up to give Gina a hug, and kissed her forehead. "You have a wonderful, bright, amazing life, my little fire. Know this: I am so, so proud of you." She smiled, her eyes light with tears. "Hah! Look at that. You make the old turnip cry, eh?"

"Wait – what about the leaves?" Gina cried, looking worriedly from her fading, ethereal-seeming grandmother to the fading tea leaves and fading cup and fading table.

"Little fire…my Gina…you already know what they say."

Gina gulped back a sob. "I…I love you, Grandmama Angie. I always will."

"And I love you, Angelina." Everything began to swirl, and Gina knew she was about to wake up. Suddenly her grandmother's fierce voice cut through the haze one last time: "Oh, and tell them to look for him where the marsh is dammed up at the creek. He's not going to Pittsburgh." Gina heard a faint snort. "Who'd ever want to go to Pittsburgh?..."

Gina inhaled deeply, opened her eyes, and stared up at the soft beige ceiling of the hospital room. Her heart monitor beeped quietly, steadily. She blinked away her tears, and murmured, "Goodbye, Grandmama."

"Gina? You okay?" a scratchy voice asked, and a furry hand touched her own. Gina turned her head slowly, mindful of all the injuries, and saw Gonzo gazing worriedly at her, perched in one of the uncomfortable chairs, a magazine abandoned by his side. Camilla snored softly, perched on the back of his chair.

"I'm okay, Gonzo, thanks." She sighed. "Just a…just a dream."

"Oh. Yeah. I have some bad ones too sometimes. There's this one about Carl Sagan and a baloney sandwich…"

"What makes you think it was a bad dream?"

"You were crying," Gonzo said, bewildered.

Gina shook her head gently. "No. Not bad. A little sad, but not bad." She peered around the room; Beaker and Pepe had fallen asleep in the other chair, and the TV was tuned to some sort of old game show with a wide-smiling man and a bunch of sheep, pigs, and cows with the sound off. Honeydew had crashed on the unoccupied bed, and Rizzo was scarfing down a Jell-O cup with an old _Small Mammal Illustrated Swimsuit Edition_ propped open against the scientist's feet on the end of the bed. Gina tried to stretch, feeling more alert than she had in hours. "What time is it?"

Gonzo checked his cell phone. "Uh, almost four-thirty."

Gina nodded. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"Sure…"

"Does it have Kermit's number?"

"Oh, yeah. It's that one there."

Gina grinned. "The one labeled _Being Green?"_

"Yeah. Seemed easier to remember that way."

Gina hit _call,_ and waited for Kermit to pick up.

Kermit hung up, and leaned forward to tap Scooter's shoulder. "Uh? Whuh? I'm awake!" Scooter yelled, the bus swerving as he jerked upright.

"Ack! Scooter!"

"Oh…sorry, chief. What's up?"

"Do we have a road map?"

"Uh…sure." Scooter handed the map over his shoulder. "Why?"

"That was Gina. She said the Newsman isn't going to make it to Pittsburgh."

"Oh…well, that's good! I'm not sure the bus is, either!"

"Like, are we there yet? I rully need a break," Janice called up.

"Yeah, man! How far can that guy run, anyway?" Floyd complained.

Kermit sighed. "Scooter, take this next exit and look for someplace with a bathroom, okay?"

"On it, boss!"

Kermit settled back in his seat, opening the map out. Piggy looked at it, then at him. "Um…what's going on?"

Kermit shook his head, studying the map. "Gina said she had some kind of a…a dream, and she believes the Newsman didn't stay on the train. She said to look for him where the marsh is dammed by the creek." He met Piggy's raised eyebrows with a shrug. "It didn't make much sense. That's all she knows, she said."

"Uh, are we stopping? 'Cause I think your drummer is about to start eating someone _else's_ seat," Rhonda pointed out. Kermit looked to the back of the bus. Animal was chewing a chunk of old foam from his seat, which looked hardly anything like a seat anymore.

Kermit shuddered. "Eeesh! Yes, we're stopping." As he spoke, Scooter eased the ungainly bus off the highway and down an exit ramp. They'd left Philly behind a short time ago, and the lights of houses had become farther apart. He hoped they could find something out here, and wished he'd had the foresight to call for a pit stop farther back.

"Good," Rhonda sighed, yawning. She noticed the map, and Kermit's intense study of it. "What're you looking for?"

"Some kind of marsh, or dam, or creek…I'm really not sure," Kermit sighed.

Rhonda pointed ahead out the windshield. "Like that?"

They all looked up as a sign loomed overhead: MARSH CREEK STATE PARK, 5 MILES.

Kermit nodded. "That could do it!"

Crickets chirped, and unseen things rustled the grass. Darting fearful, blurry glances in every direction, the Newsman stumbled along the dirt path. He was rapidly regretting his decision to head _away_ from the lights of a small town. Whatever Scott had given him had worn off, and he'd been rudely awakened by rough hands grabbing him by one arm and one leg and throwing him out of the kitchen of the diner car when the train slowed for a curve in the tracks. He hadn't even had the chance to point out he was technically luggage, not a stowaway; he reflected now that maybe climbing up into the kitchen from the storage bin had been his mistake. But it had been so cold…

Shivering now, rebuttoning his sports coat to try to retain some little body heat, he walked slowly along, with no idea where he was heading, no idea how far from Pittsburgh he might yet be; no idea how long he'd napped, curled into as small a space as he could manage in the warm kitchen, before he'd been discovered. He couldn't see much, with his glasses missing and the trees looming overhead. He really should at least have stopped at that gas station (at least, it had _smelled_ like a gas station) and asked directions. Being lost and alone had been one of his worst fears since he was a child, ever since he'd been separated from his third-grade class trip in the museum (and mean Randy Higgins had run off with his glasses, laughing cruelly). Gulping, Newsie squinted into the surrounding darkness. Tree branches swayed overhead. Something hooted at him! He whirled, glaring, but the joker kept right on with his odd laugh: "Hoo…hoohoo! Hoohoo!"

Even lost in the wilderness, people laughed at him. Great.

Something sparkled up ahead. Thinking it might be a building, or some other sign of civilization, Newsie sped his pace up, trying not to trip on the rough footpath. The trees closed in, making him even more nervous. Suddenly he was right on top of the sparkling thing! Startled, he fell backwards, and sat there shaking, unmoving, for some time before he realized nothing else stirred. He reached forward and cautiously touched the sparkling thing. It was a road. The kind of road with shiny mica in the asphalt. Relaxing slightly, he blew out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and got to his feet. Looking up, he saw a bright moon slowly going down. Its light danced over the road. Relieved, Newsie decided to follow the pavement. There must be some sort of civilized place ahead, right? He'd find someone, and ask where he was, and…and…

He had no idea what to do after that. He couldn't go home. Swallowing hard, he forced his feet into motion, his body still aching from the tragedy earlier that night. Had he not been a Muppet, he surely would've been laid up in a hospital bed…just like… No. No! He shouldn't even think of her. She'd be better off without him around. She'd be _safer._ Nodding to himself, he walked along the road, barely able to discern something else sparkling ahead. Unlike the road, this appeared to be moving. He could smell green things, and plants decaying, and fish…water? He swallowed dryly. If he could find any that was safe to drink, he'd certainly like to wet his throat.

After a few minutes' walk, during which he looked around constantly, never quite able to see what it was rustling through the underbrush on either side of the road, he saw a broad expanse of moving, shifting water ahead. The road seemed to come right down alongside it. He saw larger shapes stacked near the water's edge, and then thought he noticed movement among the shapes. Stopping, he squinted ahead, unable to see anything but blurry forms. The larger things might be tables, or boats, or stacks of sandbags. As he tried to figure them out without coming closer, something smaller definitely shifted, moving away from the stacks…moving closer to him? "H-hello?" Newsie called out. His voice sounded very, very alone in the quiet night.

The thing paused, then hopped closer. It seemed to have…horns! Frightened, the Newsman backed away. Monsters! Monsters, out here in the country! All the stories he'd heard were true! The thing waggled its horns at him, then hopped closer again. With a yelp of fright, the Newsman turned and pelted down the road. As he headed into the darker part among the trees, unable to find the entrance to the dirt path again in the night, enormous yellow eyes suddenly came around a bend at him, and something huge roared and belched. "Aaaaah!" Newsie cried, nearly tripping as he tried to reverse. He ran back toward the water, sure the other monster was awaiting him still, but hoping it would also be spooked by the giant creature now hot on his rear. The glowing eyes blinked at him as the monster snarled over a bump, and now he could hear voices! Oh, no – those must be the screams of all its prior victims, trapped in its belly! It was huge! It would eat him! It would –

 _"_ _A-HAH!"_ a tall reddish thing growled, jumping in front of him. With a shriek, Newsie's feet locked in fright, and he pinwheeled frantically before keeling over. He didn't even have time to experience the pain of his head hitting the asphalt before the skinny-legged reddish thing was bending over him – its hand reaching for him – its brow going up to reveal large staring eyes – its wide mouth gaping –

"TAG! You're it," the thing said, tapping his shoulder. "Hah hah hah hah!"

 _The drummer?_ His mind choked, recognizing the furry face and wide grin. Then the head injury caught up to the rest of him, and Newsie passed out.


	33. Chapter 33

"Ya know, without the glasses, he _does_ kind of look like –"

"Shh! He's waking up!"

"Hey, Newsie? Newsie, ya in there?"

With a soft groan, the Newsman tried to focus. To his dismay, he remembered his glasses were gone. Suddenly a small creature hopped onto his leg; he cringed, but it said in a familiar voice: "It's _me,_ you idiot! You okay?"

"Rhonda?" He squinted and could just make out little rat eyes staring at him under blonde hair. Slowly his strained nerves came off red alert. Something green moved in front of him. "K-Kermit?"

"How are you feeling?" Kermit asked. Peering around, the Newsman could make out the taped-up old seat he was propped on, and a variety of very blurred shapes gathered on all sides, below, behind.

"Where'd you guys come from?" Newsie asked, bewildered. He heard Animal yelling somewhere in the near distance, something about a bunny rabbit.

"We have come to rescue you," Miss Piggy said sweetly.

Newsie stared at her…well, at the large pinkish blur he was fairly sure was her. "How…how hard was I hit? I haven't had hallucinations in a long time…" he muttered.

Someone snickered, but was quickly shushed. Kermit shook his head, coming closer so Newsie could make out his concerned expression. "You're not hallucinating, Newsman. We came to find you and bring you home."

"Home?" Newsie shook his head. "I…I don't have a home anymore."

"Gina's waiting for you, ya twit," Rhonda snapped, paws on her hips.

He recoiled. _"No!_ I can't…can't be with her…she'll get hurt…" He flinched as two firm flippers came down on his shoulders, and stared, frightened, at Kermit. "No! You don't understand! You were right, Kermit! It _is_ all my fault! I can't go back!"

"No," Kermit said gently, shaking his head. "No, it isn't. And Gina's fine, and she's going to be fine with you there. Bunsen and Beaker came up with a solution."

"We're takin' you back to that sweet, sweet love," Dr Teeth agreed, leaning over a seat farther back. The other musicians chuckled.

"What you did for her was, like, sooooo groovy," Janice said. "Like, you guys _should_ be together, after all that!"

"Right on," Zoot said.

"But…how…"

Rhonda sighed. "Look, you have this weird energy field thing, right? Well, so does Gina, and apparently when the two of you got together it just made all that energy go squirrely! And believe me, squirrel energy is the _worst_ kind!"

"Things fall on her too?" Newsie wondered, confused. She'd never told him that! Had she been hiding her own horrible luck from him?

He winced as a tiny paw smacked the back of his head. "No, you idiot! Look, just accept it: the lab guys figured everything out, and they made this necklace thingy to fix it all." Newsie rubbed his head, wondering how the heck the rat had even reached that high.

"All we gotta do is get you home!" Scooter spoke up from the driver's seat.

"Hey, Animal! Come on, man! Time to go home!" Floyd yelled out the open bus door.

"Bun-ny rab-bit?" Animal growled hopefully, and suddenly the horned hopping monster was thrust in front of the Newsman's face. He choked, squirming back, unable to get very far in the seat.

"Sure, you can keep the bunny rabbit! Now come on, let's load up!" Floyd ordered, and the blurry horned thing disappeared with a squeak as Animal carried it to the back seat. Slowly it dawned on Newsie there weren't any monsters here, just Muppets.

He squinted around at them all. "But what…what are all of you doing out here?"

Kermit smiled. "You heard Piggy. We came to rescue you!"

He blinked at them. "W-why?"

Piggy bit her lip, glancing at her frog. Kermit answered for them all. "Because you're one of us, Newsman. You always have been. And we…we want you back." Newsie was doubly astounded when in addition to Kermit's hand on his arm, Piggy reached over and added hers as well. Slowly he felt more gentle hands on his shoulders, his arms, his knee, his nose… "Ah, Animal, I don't think he wants you holding him there."

"Sor-ry…"

"Come home," Kermit urged him.

Newsie looked around at them all, trembling, astonished. "You…you want me back? After what I caused? The…the tornado? The holes in the floor?"

"It wasn't _totally_ your fault," Rhonda said.

"Come home, Newsie," Scooter said.

"Yeah, man. Who else could ever read the news?" Floyd asked, although he added under his breath, "If we ever get the show actually _running_ again…"

Newsie swallowed, trying to take it all in. "And…I won't be a jinx anymore?"

Rhonda shook her head. "I don't think I'd go _that_ far."

"Gina will be safe. _All_ of us will be safe," Kermit said firmly. "Come home with us. Piggy's already organizing a welcome-back party for you…aren't you, Piggy?"

Fortunately, Newsie couldn't see the frown which crossed Piggy's face before she smiled. "But of course! I would not _dream_ of letting such a happy occasion go by without a celebration for the return of our favorite journalist!"

"Really?" He blinked at her in surprise. "I thought you didn't want me at your parties… Did you know, I think someone spiked the punch bowl last time?"

"Aha, ha, ha," Piggy cooed. "Why, what a silly idea!"

Kermit flashed a scowl at her, but then patted Newsie's shoulder. "We're going home. _All_ of us." He gestured for everyone to take their seats, and as Muppets shuffled out of the aisle and into various battered benches, Kermit commanded, "Scooter, move this bus!"

"You got it, chief!"

Newsie sat in stunned silence as the bus wheezed into motion. Kermit gave him a smile, and went to sit in the opposite seat with Piggy. Rhonda sighed contentedly, settling onto the seat next to Newsie. He squinted down at her. "Did you…organize this? For me?"

Rhonda shrugged. "Eh, no big. You don't need to th—"

Newsie gathered her into his arms and hugged her tightly. "Ack! No! Stop! No hugs! Sheesh," she complained as he finally released her. She gave him a poke in the ribs, making him grunt in pain; though healing, he was still sore. "You don't need to thank me! But I _do_ get your exclusive interview, got it?" Able to smile at her, Newsie nodded, reaching for his handkerchief, feeling droplets at the corners of his eyes. He apparently had left it behind at the Sosilly along with his tie. Rhonda poked him again, less harshly, and he glanced down to find her holding up a lace hankie. Nodding thanks, he wiped the tears quickly, embarrassed, hoping no one else noticed.

Piggy looked away, and Kermit took her hand in his. He gave her a querying look. _Well, heck,_ Piggy thought, sighing, _I guess even geeks need love._ She looked into her frog's kind eyes, and sat up proudly, and gave him a firm nod. They'd done the right thing, and she was glad to be part of it. Kermit snuggled in next to her, and the bus climbed onto the highway for the long journey home.

Harlan Grosse Point Blanke was at the station early, as was his wont on Friday mornings in order to review the proposed specials or other planned events for the weekend. He hadn't even sat down yet when his private line rang. Assuming it was his wife calling to remind him of some lunch date before he became engrossed in the morning meetings, he set down his croissant with low-fat buttery spread (a blend he had specially made from the excess profits of the station's reality-TV show, _Butter Me Up!)_ and his decaf coffee and answered, "Yes, honey, what did I forget?"

The voice on the other end was high, with a nails-on-blackboard quality…but even scratchier-sounding than his wife's. "Mr Blanke, this is the ACLU. We're calling in regard to one of your former employees, the Newsman. Is it true he was let go as part of an overall campaign to rid your station of all Muppet employees?"

"What?" Blanke sat down hard. "The ACLU?"

"Last year you fired five employees, yet your ratings were consistently average even after the firings, so your stated goal of raising ratings by cutting the least productive employees seems to us to be a smokescreen for your discriminatory policies!"

"What?" Blanke said, louder. "No! No, I…who did we fire?"

"The Newsman, Lewis Kazagger, Annie Sue Pig, your own cousin R.I.P. Grosse, and some rat named Bubba." The voice paused, then continued suggestively, "Of course, if you fired the Newsman due to his notorious tendency to jinx things, we might _not_ have enough for a civil-action suit. Why exactly _did_ you fire the newscaster?"

Blanke, flustered, tried to drink his croissant. "Well, I – you'd have to speak to Lenny Muldoon, he actually does all the hiring and firing –"

"Well, Mr Blanke, he told us to talk to _you."_ As Blanke swallowed dryly, thinking in rising panic how much of their assets could get tangled in a civil suit, not to mention the bad publicity for the station, the person on the other end of the phone continued, "Look, we're reasonable people, Mr Blanke! We completely understand if –"

"T-talk to our lawyers," Blanke stuttered, and hung up fast. Shaking, he took a moment to compose himself, then shouted, _"Murray!"_

His assistant popped his head in the door. "Sir?"

"I need you to pull some files for me. All those...those Muppets we fired last year. The ACLU just called."

"Oh, is this about that Newsman guy?" Murray asked.

"Who?"

"Short guy, kinda yellow, bad jacket…"

"Oh _him,"_ Blanke said. Now he recalled the reporter. Honestly he couldn't think of anything wrong with him…seemed kind of bland to him, really…but the board had voted to cut all Muppets. It hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time. "Is there something I should have been told about him?" Blanke demanded.

Murray shrugged. "Dunno. Always seemed kind of boring to me, but he's been all over the news. Those jerks at KRAS accused us of firing him because we thought he'd go postal someday."

Blanke glared at his assistant. "Has he?"

"Hard to tell. The _Daily Scandal_ claimed so…"

"Hah!" Blanke snorted, and successfully took a sip of his croissant and a bite of his coffee cup, chewing absently while his brain turned over. Murray knew better than to say anything, and waited at the door. Finally Blanke decided what to do. "KRAS and the _Scandal,_ huh? Those are both ConHugeCo outfits, aren't they? Red Turner's boys. You know how Rupert _hates_ anything to do with Turner… Murray! Get me everything you have on this Newsguy, and I mean everything! Where he's working now, where he lives, the exact story the _Scandal_ ran. Oh, and tell the lawyers to pull something together to fight a civil suit, in case this doesn't work." He sighed, plopping back into his seat. "Who knew Muppets were listed under Equal Opportunity laws?"

At the desk of the social scene reporter for the _Daily Scandal_ , Fleet Scribbler chewed a pencil disgruntledly. Boy, he'd really thought throwing out a possible discrimination lawsuit would have that station chief falling all over himself to denounce the Newsman! Oh, well, he'd just do what he always did, and make something up.

"Hey, creep, were your dirty lips next to _my_ phone?" the social scene reporter exclaimed, kicking him away from her desk. "How many times have I told you to stay away from my stuff!"

Before he could come up with a clever retort, the editor stormed past, yelling, "Scribbler, you'd better have that story done in _two minutes_ or I'll run the one about a longtime gossip columnist being arrested for Muppaphone smuggling instead!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm almost done," Scribbler growled, and hastened back to his own tiny desk to finish typing up his account of the Muppet Theatre Massacre, which might not have four-part harmony, but it did have a couple pics of the damage to the theatre floor which would look even better after the photo editor touched them up in TabloidShop. He'd make that stupid Newsie pay for messing up his face and his dignity! Typing frantically, Scribbler smiled. Just in time for the morning edition…

The nurses had just finished shift change when the flood began.

It started with a shriek in the main lobby, and several people scattering as a small troupe of rats stepped up to the desk. "'Scuse us," the largest of them said. "When do visitin' hours start?"

As the orderly on duty fled, screaming, Bubba looked at the other rats, shrugged, and said, "Guess dat means they start now! Heh heh heh." Happily, the rodents headed for the elevator, riding up in a car with a startled patient in a wheelchair whose nurse had abandoned him upon seeing the rats pouring in.

"Hoof der foo sveen yager bork?" the man in the poufy white hat asked the emergency desk orderly, a young man not quite as jaded as the night admittance nurse.

"Uh…do you have insurance?" he asked, baffled.

Fozzie stirred from the row of chairs he'd fallen asleep in. "Oh! Hey, am I glad to see you guys! You know, this paperwork is really confusing!" He showed it to the Chef and Rowlf.

Rowlf scratched his head. "Uh, I think you only need to do that stuff if you're a patient, Fozzie. Come on, let's go find everybody." As the three of them started for the elevator, the nurse ran around to block their way.

"Hey…no dogs allowed in here!"

"Oh, I'm with him," Rowlf said, patting the Chef's back.

The Chef nodded enthusiastically. "Ya, vistinns der tumpy-tumpa girlen," he told the confused nurse, holding up a pot which smelled dubiously of boiled cabbage. "Hernen un sicky-socky soopen!"

"Uh…are you his seeing-eye dog?"

"No, his translator! He wants to go to Gina Broucek's room," Rowlf said.

"Uh…er…room three-twelve," the nurse said, checking the admissions logs.

"Burn de bool!" the Chef said, giving the nurse an a-ok sign.

"He says thank you," Rowlf said helpfully.

As they trotted down the hall to the elevator, Fozzie whispered to Rowlf, "Rowlf, did you just tell a _lie?"_

"You bet I did! I have _no idea_ what the Chef ever says!"

When an orderly entered the patient's room with breakfast, she set it upon the high rolling tray and started to move it toward the bed. "Good morning…time for breakfa…" Her voice trailed off as she slowly looked around, becoming aware of the fact the room was packed with strange creatures. Chickens roosted on the end of the bedframe. A weird blue thing with a hooked nose blinked at her from a chair by the bed. A dog, a bear, and a bug-eyed man in an Elizabethan collar with a fish in one hand stared at her curiously from the other bed. In a corner, the tallest eagle she'd ever seen nodded at her, _hmm_ ing approval.

"Just leave it there, sister. We'll take care of it," a thin voice said at her feet. Startled, the orderly looked down to see a rat in a varsity jacket grabbing the bottom of the wheeled tray and pushing it over to the bed.

"Care to… _join_ us?" some kind of fuzzy orange shrimp asked, rubbing her shoe suggestively.

Screaming, the orderly fled, slamming the door behind her.

"That was terribly rude!" Sam huffed. He leaned closer to Gina. "How fortunate you were already awake! I was not aware hospital employees were so _noisy!"_

"Me either," Gina said, smiling.

"They only brought one bowl a' oatmeal!" one of the rats complained.

"Perhaps we could order room service," Bunsen offered. "Beaker, would you call the nurse, please?"

"Mee mee," Beaker agreed, hitting what he thought was the nurse call button. Instead, the bed Fozzie, Rowlf, and Lew were sitting on started folding up. "Mee! Mee mee mee…"

"Oh, no, I think it's this one here," Beauregard said, pressing a button which set off some sort of alarm on the unused monitors by the bed.

Gina let the rats have the oatmeal, happily sipping from a small carton of orange juice. When she'd woken a short while ago to numerous whispered conversations going on around her and found what seemed to be most of the cast and crew of the Muppet Theatre gathered in her room, they'd told her the good news right away. Newsie was on his way home. She ran her fingers along the smooth beads of the copper necklace. He was coming home, and she would make sure he never felt he had to leave again. Several of the Muppets began arguing with the nurse who answered the call summons about how much food could be brought up; Bubba and Rizzo volunteered to raid the kitchen downstairs; the Swedish Chef poured out a bowl of soup for her which smelled like stewed tube socks; and the chickens clucked angrily when chicken soup was mentioned. Gina lay her head back on her pillow, smiling.

All his friends would be here, and her Newsie was coming home.

By the time the crowd of Muppets poured from the bus and marched irregularly through the front lobby doors, the nurses, orderlies, and even doctors gave them a wide berth. They stepped confidently up to the front desk, Kermit in the lead. "Uh, pardon me," he began.

Every person in the room stopped and pointed at the elevator. "Th-three-tw-twelve," the nurse behind the desk said, gulping.

"Oh," Kermit said. The Muppets looked at one another, pleased. Kermit nodded. "Thank you!" As the entire troupe headed for the elevator, Kermit said to Newsie, "Well, that was easy."

Newsie nodded back, relieved. He'd worried they might have to sneak in again.

On the ride up, he fidgeted with his sports coat and the string bracelet which was still around his wrist, though looking a little worse for wear. He'd done his best to comb his hair and straighten up just before they reached St Pancreas. Kermit patted his shoulder. A little surprised still at all this support, the Newsman gave him a nod of thanks. They filed out of the elevator on the third floor, and everyone else fell back to let Newsie take the lead. He looked back at them nervously. "What if it doesn't work?" he whispered to Kermit.

"Well, then…then we'll just have to figure out something else," Kermit assured him.

"Or cryogenically freeze you," Piggy muttered.

"Newsie, it'll be okay," Rhonda insisted.

Newsie swallowed, turned to the door of Gina's room, and lifted his hand to knock. Before his knuckles could fall upon the door, Rizzo barged past with several other rats in tow, each of them bearing stacks of dishes full of various foodstuffs over their heads. "Hey, gangway!" Rizzo paused, letting the others troop into the room ahead, and looked up at Newsie. "Oh, look what the cat dragged in! 'Bout time you got here!"

He was about to snap at the rat when he heard her voice. "Newsie?"

He rushed into the room, going straight to the bed. Gina was sitting mostly upright, her back supported by the raised top section of the mattress. She smiled at him. Gulping, afraid again, Newsie approached cautiously. She held out the hand which wasn't tied into an IV drip. Trembling, he reached for her. Everyone stopped, collective breath held; Beaker ducked his head inside his collar, hoping they'd calculated the field frequency correctly.

The Newsman's hand touched Gina's. A ripple shivered through the room, as though the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees. Newsie stared at her. She smiled. Unable to hold back, he leaped onto a chair by the bed and leaned in to embrace her. She kissed his nose, then his lips; fervently he kissed back, only dimly aware of the sigh which swept through the assembled Muppets.

"This is rully sweet," Janice murmured. Floyd nodded, holding her by the waist.

"Beaker, I think it's working!" Bunsen whispered loudly.

Kermit watched, feeling both relieved and embarrassed, as his newscaster engaged in what clearly was shaping up to be a very passionate kiss with the young woman who loved him. He turned to Piggy, surprised to see a small tear in one lovely blue eye. "Piggy?" he asked.

"Hm?" she looked at him, realized what he'd noticed, and quickly dabbed at both eyes. "Oh! These hospital rooms are so _dry_ it makes my eyes hurt!"

"Uh-huh," Kermit said, smiling. She shot him a frown, but then squeezed his flipper.

Gina broke the kiss first, shifting painfully. "Ow…"

Alarmed, Newsie pulled back, making sure his body wasn't leaning on hers at all. "I'm sorry! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she replied, and stroked his cheek gently. "What about you? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he assured her, feeling better than that right this moment. "Um…what's…what's this cure?"

"Oh. This. Like it?" Gina indicated a copper bead necklace he'd never seen before.

"A necklace?" He looked from it to his bracelet. "You know, before all this I never heard of personal jewelry serving medicinal purposes…"

"That is the wearable psychokinetic energy field modulator device, specifically charged to block Miss Broucek's original energy signature," Honeydew volunteered. "Once your field has been exposed to the full effects of the anticharge, Newsman, you should revert to your original energy levels, and the psychokinetic manifestational attributes you've been experiencing should be cancelled out!"

"Uh…" Newsie said, blinking.

Gina pulled him close for another kiss. "It means we're going to be fine. You and me, and everyone else. No more news reports backfiring on everyone."

"Oh," he said, relieved. He swallowed. "Um. But will they, er, still affect me?"

Beaker sighed sadly. Bunsen apologized, "I'm so sorry, Newsman. Returning both of you to a balanced state was the only way we could assure the worst effects of your combined fields would remain dormant."

"Can you live with that?" Gina asked.

Newsie looked worriedly into her eyes. "Can you…can you live with _me?"_

"Definitely," Gina said, and stroked his hair back. Closing his eyes, he held onto her arm, deep relief and gratitude and extraordinary happiness coursing all through him. "So," she asked, "what happened to your glasses?"

Before he could tell her he had no idea, the door opened again. Everyone turned to see a paunchy, balding man in an expensive suit marching in, papers in hand, followed closely by a mustachioed man carrying a briefcase. Newsie's eyes widened; even without his glasses, he knew the voice as soon as the man spoke: "I'm Harlan Grosse Point Blanke, station manager at KRAK. Where's this Newsman?"

Scooter stood up, surprised. "Cousin Harlan?"

Blanke stared blankly. "Who is that?"

His assistant stepped up, muttering in his ear, "That's your cousin Scooter. Remember, J P put him at the Muppet Theatre to oversee things?"

"Oh, right, right, hiya, Scooby. Now can anyone tell me—"

"That's _Scooter,"_ the young man corrected, annoyed, but his pompous cousin wasn't listening. Instead, Blanke stepped over to Newsie, looking awed, holding out his hand.

"Mr Donaldson! An honor, sir. Big fan. I, ah, didn't realize you knew these…er…these Muppet folks."

Newsie stared at him in utter surprise. Gina spoke up quickly. "Oh yes. Sam's been a supporter of Newsie's for years. How can we help you, Mr Blanke?"

"I have?" Sam the Eagle wondered, puzzled.

"Er," Blanke said, clearly discomfited that the great Mr Donaldson wasn't shaking hands. "Well. I, uh, I have been _closely following_ the recent scurrilous reports in some of our rival's news media, and I am appalled, completely _appalled,_ at the allegations about the Newsman…especially in connection with KRAK! So, in reviewing his files, I have come to the conclusion that perhaps the news director was in error when he let this star reporter go, and I've come to offer him his job back."

Astounded, Newsie started to protest. "But _you_ were the one—ow."

Gina kept her fingertips on Newsie's arm after the pinch to hold him still. "Well, I'm not sure the Newsman would _want_ that job back, Mr Blanke."

Rhonda jumped onto the bed, getting in Blanke's way. "And after my special report in today's edition of the _Post,_ he's gonna have lots of people knocking on his door! I'm sure _People_ and _Discover_ are gonna want to go in-depth nationally on how that poor man was blamed for several disasters at local theatres, only to learn he was the victim of…of…"

"Explosive concurrent protosimilar manifestational psychokinetic field syndrome," Honeydew offered.

"Right," Rhonda nodded. "And you just _know_ PBS will want to do a special…"

Blanke chewed his lower lip, worried. "No, no, no! No, he needs to come work for us again! We could use a…a new…"

"Field reporter in charge of Muppet news _and_ first-on-scene lead?" Newsie suggested, trying to deepen his voice. The others all looked at him. Gina suppressed a giggle.

"Yes! Yes! That's a fantastic idea, Mr Donaldson!" Blanke nodded. "And…and we'll start him off with a bonus for the first-televised rights to his exclusive story!"

"I think he'll need a special reports editor for that," Gina said, looking pointedly at Rhonda, who squeaked and stood up proudly.

"You _do_ have a Muppet special reports editor, don't you?" Newsie asked, giving Blanke his sternest glower.

"Oh, of course, yes, of course!" Blanke said, starting to sweat.

"I've been talking to Mr Donaldson here," Rhonda said casually, "And he says ABC will offer me twenty grand and all the cheese I want yearly, provided I deliver well-packaged Muppet-sensitive programming…"

"Thirty! And _more_ cheese than you want!" Blanke said immediately.

"Sold!" Rizzo cackled. He looked at Rhonda. "You need an assistant, right?"

"Well?" Blanke asked Newsie. Newsie looked at Gina. She smiled.

"Give me the contract. I'll vet it and _if_ it looks right, I'll pass it along to the Newsman," Newsie said gruffly.

"Wonderful! Wonderful! Tell him to report to the station tonight and we'll get started—"

Gina nudged Newsie. He cleared his throat. "Monday."

"Monday! Fantastic! Monday! All right, thank you so much, Mr Donaldson. Tell him we'll see him then!" Nervously looking around at everyone, Blanke exited. His assistant sighed, opened the briefcase, tucked away the papers, and nodded at Newsie.

"Nice to have you back, Newsman," he said.

"See you Monday, Murray," Newsie replied, a grin building as the assistant followed his boss out.

When the door shut once more, Kermit spoke up. "Well look, Newsman, I can't pay you that much, and I don't know if we'll even be able to get the Muppet Theatre running again anytime soon…but you're welcome to the News Flash job, if you still want it."

Newsie couldn't make out anyone's features, but the silence in the room spoke volumes to him. "I'd be happy to," he said, emotion deepening his voice, and the room erupted in laughter and cries of "Yeah! Yeah Newsie!"

Gina pulled him close for a kiss. Amazed at how fast his life seemed to be turning around for the better, Newsie reveled in her touch, gently stroking her cheek in return. The Muppets continued to chatter happily. An argument over who would get the cheddar in the deal broke out between Rizzo and Rhonda. Bunsen and Beaker engaged in a detailed discussion of the theory behind the modulator device for the Swedish Chef's benefit, although he stood scratching his head at their tech-heavy language. Piggy kissed Kermit. Scooter talked with the band and Rowlf about the music he thought might work best at the upcoming auction. Kermit nodded and tried to be happy amidst the general celebration, though privately he felt this was only one crisis solved, with the larger one of the damaged theatre still to go.

Gradually, all of them became aware of a subtle pressure building in the air of the room. "Whoa, does anyone else feel that?" Gonzo asked, the chickens clucking as they drew together around him nervously.

"Kermit, dat feels like a storm!" Fozzie said, looking around.

Kermit quickly looked at the Muppet Labs duo. "Bunsen! I thought you said you'd solved things!"

Everyone slowly stopped talking and looked at the Newsman and Gina, who had one arm each around the other, kissing deeply, eyes closed, oblivious to all else. A definite sense of charged air grew in the room. "Meep!" Beaker said, feeling his hair standing up straight.

"Er…we did," Bunsen answered, staring at the couple on the bed. "Perhaps I neglected to mention that the psychokinetic energy field anticharge would only take full effect once the…er, individual fields…ah…combined fully once more?"

"Fields? Looks more like tongues," Piggy muttered, astonished.

The rats began backing toward the door. "Ah…nice reunion everybody seeya later," Rizzo said hurriedly.

"Uh…is Animal still on the bus?" Scooter asked, shivering at the breeze from nowhere swirling through the room.

"Yeah, man; we thought he could make sure we didn't get towed for parking on the street," Floyd replied, blinking in astonishment at the duration and intensity of the kiss. "Uh…maybe we should go feed him!" He hustled out, with the rest of the band on his heels.

"Perhaps the rest of us should…" Bunsen began, pointing at the door.

"That sounds like a good idea," Kermit said, backing away as well. Suddenly he was hit in the face by Newsie's sports coat as Gina tossed it across the room. "Eeesh! Everybody out!" Kermit yelled.

Newsie and Gina continued the kiss, too caught up in the building energy surrounding them both to notice as the rest of the crowd fled the room. When the door slammed shut again, Sam the Eagle stopped Pepe trying to sneak back in. "Where are you going?" Sam demanded.

"Oh. Ah…I think I left my nail file in theres," Pepe tried.

"Shoo! _Shoo!"_ Sam shouted, chasing the king prawn away. He scowled. "Weirdo!"

Newsie broke the kiss, panting, amazed as Gina swiftly unbuttoned his shirt. "But…but…here? Aren't you…uh…still hurt?"

"I…don't…care," she replied, equally breathless, shoving the blankets down.

"Um," Newsie managed, glancing around the suddenly empty room, overwhelmed by some exhilarating form of electricity he could feel all around them both. "Gina, uh, I'm not sure this is –waaaagh!" She grabbed him and swung him into the bed.

In the hall outside, Sam, Rowlf, and Fozzie stood a few feet away, keeping an eye out to make sure the couple had some privacy and no nurses or anyone else bothered them. Rowlf hummed "Daisy, Daisy" loudly. Sam glared down the hallway at the nurses' station, although all the nurses steered clear of them. Fozzie's ears perked, and his eyes widened. He leaned closer to Rowlf. "Ah, Rowlf? I thought Gina was all hurt from dat accident?"

"Uh, yeah?" Rowlf said, glad he didn't show a blush.

Fozzie listened again. "So…why are dey jumping on the bed together? Mom always said dat was a bad idea, you might get hurt!"

"Oh. Uh." Rowlf scratched his ear, trying to come up with something to answer that. "Um. Well, sometimes people in, uh, in love, like to jump on beds together."

"Ohhhh," Fozzie said, pointing a finger at the dog sagely. _"I_ get it!"

Rowlf looked at him. Sam looked at him. Fozzie nodded. "'Cause if you're in _love,_ da other person won't let you fall off da bed! Right?"

"Uh…right, Fozzie. You got it."


	34. Chapter 34

At least, Kermit reflected, everyone would have one last hurrah, even though he doubted they'd be able to raise enough money to fix the theatre. He'd dipped deep into his and Piggy's savings in order to rent the grand ballroom at the Sedgewick for the night. Scooter and Dr Teeth had managed to round up a pretty good crew of performers and celebrities who'd donated special items for the auction, and when he'd checked the advance ticket sales thus far they looked promising. It was even possible they'd sell the room capacity. However, as the frog watched his capable second-in-command supervising the placement of the stage risers at one end of the ballroom, he found it hard to feel anything but a sinking sense of finality.

Scooter sent the stagepigs off to get the bunting, music stands, and podium which would decorate the platforms, then trotted over to Kermit. "It seems to be going smoothly so far, chief! How's the Chef coming with the buffet layout?"

They both craned their necks around numerous small tables to the long buffet taking shape near the opposite wall from the stage. "Roon de fol der fondue!" The Chef complained, waving a pair of salad tongs at the harried kitchen staff the hotel had provided.

"It's getting there," Kermit sighed. Scooter nodded.

"Well, here's the finalized schedule of acts. I think it's a winner!" Scooter smiled, giving Kermit the handwritten sheet with the order of the auction and concert, and darted after a stagepig. "Hey! I said the _center!_ Don't you know what a center is?"

Kermit read down the list. They'd decided finally to combine the auction with musical performances, so that guests who might not wish to bid on anything could pay for a seat and enjoy a concert…or so bidders could be entertained between rounds of the auction. It did look like a decent list: Paul Simon, Steve Martin, and his dear friend Julie Andrews had volunteered their talents; Alice Cooper was being picked up at the airport by Beauregard and Uncle Deadly even now; Whoopi Goldberg had already checked into the hotel and would be their auctioneer. Several of their Hollywood friends had either promised to be there to show their support or had sent regrets, but with donations toward the reconstruction of the Muppet Theatre. Scooter and the Newsman had worked out a press release and distributed it to every radio and TV station, every newspaper, and a number of influential local blogs.

Rhonda reported gleefully just that morning that Scribbler's attempt at a further smear piece on Friday linking Newsie to the theatre catastrophe had only made local media more interested in carrying stories about the Muppets. Kermit had cajoled Piggy into watching the special report Rhonda and Newsie had produced and aired Tuesday night, and even though she had snorted and muttered comments all the way through it ("Interviewing anti-terrorism officials about the potential of psycho-energy to destroy buildings? Who does he think he is, the _real_ Donaldson?"), she'd still snuggled with Kermit the whole show, so he knew she was privately happy Newsie had found his place again. At least _somebody's_ life seemed to be going well.

He hopped over to the table where the auction items would be laid out one at a time for bidding. At the top of a ladder above it, Gina's tall tattooed friend from the Sosilly was adjusting a tiny spotlight. He'd already put up a number of colorful lights roughly pointed at the performance area of the platforms, which would be fine-tuned as soon as the musical instruments were in place. "Hey, we really appreciate you helping us out with this," Kermit called up.

"Oh, no problem," Scott said, checking the angle of the spotlight and then climbing down the ladder. He grinned widely. "Since the Scottish Play's been postponed 'til this weekend while they're fixing the grid and checking the fire-safety stuff, I had a little time to kill."

"Well, thank you," Kermit said, nodding, watching the lanky young man resetting the sixteen-foot ladder on his own, apparently without effort, to resume work on the music-stage lighting. "Thank you for doing all this. And please tell your boss we appreciate the loan of the lighting equipment."

"No big. Too bad Gina's missing out," Scott grinned. "She loves doing concert lighting! She was so miffed when I said I'd do it 'cause she can't go up ladders yet."

"I'm really sorry she's still sore," Kermit offered.

Scott went up the ladder again to aim the lights approximately where the musicians would each stand. "You _bet_ she's sore! A Muppet gig and she's not the one who gets to light it! Huh huh huh!"

Dr Teeth, Floyd, and Animal came through the double doors leading to the service hallway. Floyd was pulling Animal, and Animal was pulling a rolling cart piled with his drum kit and the upright piano from the theatre. "Hey, looks like we're good to get it on!" Dr Teeth said, looking at the platforms. "Come on, the faster we _get_ set, the faster we can practice _our_ set!" Zoot, Lips, and Janice came slowly in behind them, gazing around at the spacious setting.

"Get set! Get set!" Animal growled.

"Kermit!" Turning, Kermit saw Whoopi grinning and holding her arms wide. Smiling, he hurried over and hugged her briefly. "Wow, some swanky place," Whoopi commented, looking at the chandeliers and fancily-dressed tables.

"Yeah," Kermit sighed, "I just hope it brings in the big spenders."

"Kermit, don't you worry about that. I have a _great_ feeling about tonight." She smiled at him.

"Thanks so much for coming," Kermit told her, managing to feel a little better; Whoopi always projected such an upbeat attitude it was impossible to remain depressed long in her company.

"Anything for my favorite frog," Whoopi promised, then straightened up, looking around again. "So where's your gofer? I wanted to go over the list with him; I think reorganizing the order of some of the items might produce better results."

"Sure, whatever you think will work," Kermit agreed, knowing she had far more experience putting together charity events than he did. He pointed out Scooter as the gofer ran back in and started tacking up bright green and yellow bunting around the platform edges. As those two expert planners conferred, Kermit sighed, and decided he might as well go find Piggy for a quick lunch. There was still much to do before the event tonight, and he could really use a small break. On his way out of the ballroom, Gonzo stopped him.

"Hey Kermit, did you see a cannon laying around anywhere?"

Kermit stared at him, baffled. "A cannon?"

"Yeah. I forgot to autograph it! It's my entry for the auction: the very first cannon I ever shot myself out of! But now I can't find it…"

"Eeesh," Kermit muttered, hurrying away. Leave it to Gonzo to lose a cannon. He hoped nothing else would go awry.

"Come on, let me see it," Gina called from the sofa.

"I, uh, I really don't know about this…"

"Let me see it," she insisted.

Reluctantly, Newsie came into the living room, smoothing down his new coat. He glanced down at himself, then looked worriedly at Gina. "Are you _sure_ this is a good look for me?"

Gina studied him from head to toe, biting back a giggle. The warm-gray coat with tiny pink pinstripes, pale pink shirt, solid gray pants, and paisley black-on-gray tie set off his reddish hair nicely, she thought. She had given in on the shoe issue, allowing him to hang onto his favorite Oxford wingtips. She beckoned him closer, and when he came to her, she favored him with a kiss. "You look very stylish."

"I look like a Mafioso," he muttered unhappily. "From Miami."

"No, you look like a journalist who's finally moving up," she corrected. She stroked from his chin up his left cheek.

"Uh…did I miss a spot?" Newsie asked uncertainly.

Gina frowned at him, sitting back against the sofa cushions. "What exactly are you shaving? You don't _get_ stubble."

Deliberately ignoring that issue, Newsie sat down next to her, taking her hands in his and kissing them. "Please be careful tonight." The doctor's orders had been to wear a flexible brace, like a half-corset, around her ribcage for at least the next week to protect her worst injuries, and to move around as little as possible while the bones knit. The past few days, Newsie had been waiting hand and foot on her…a far more enjoyable duty than it had ever been with his mother. No screaming, no guilt trips; just learning how to cook a few simple things (with Gina sitting in the kitchen gently directing him), the rather pleasant task of helping her wash everywhere in the shower (by standing on tiptoe he could _just_ reach her shoulderblades), and spending almost all of each day and night in her company. Although after that first intense reunion at the hospital they'd been more…cautious, Gina had managed to teach him a couple of additional things about being intimate. He studied her face now, anxious but happy, amazed when he thought of all that had happened just in the past few days.

"What are you thinking?" she asked softly, stroking her slender fingers through his hair. He'd become quite fond of that gesture.

"I was just thinking…it's Wednesday…"

"Wednesdays make you smile like that?"

He blushed, and she giggled. He was so easy to tease.

"No. I mean, it's only been a few days, and…and…"

"And it feels like a month already?" Newsie nodded, and Gina smiled back. "Yeah. Same here."

They'd done a lot of what Gina had promised him for his day off which had been interrupted by Scribbler, the worst day of his life so far. That day already felt long past. They'd spent the mornings and afternoons lounging in bed or on the sofa; Gina had challenged him to read poetry aloud to her, and had been surprised to discover he could actually soften his voice when given the right material. His quiet, heartfelt reading of "Prufrock" had made her sigh in wistful contentment. They'd flipped through newspapers together and spent hours snuggled close with hot coffee and fresh beignets, or else soda and spicy popcorn while watching "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Abridged" (Gina's choice) and "Arsenic and Old Lace" (Newsie's) and "Tangled" (which neither had previously seen, and the antics of the killer horse had them both laughing so hard that Newsie fell off the sofa and Gina had to pause the movie and rewrap her rib-brace).

While walking him through which herbs and spices to season a goulash with, Gina told him bits of folklore from central Europe about each one. Over meals he told her some of the history of the Muppets, how Piggy had romanced Kermit for years until she'd thought he'd never give in and then the frog had surprised her by arranging a marriage during a movie shoot. He spoke gradually of his own life, how he'd held various part-time jobs through college while pretending to his mother his grades had been good enough for a full scholarship, because she'd refused to finance his education. Gina spoke of her lost parents, who'd gone down with a cruise ship somewhere between the Florida Keys and the Bahamas while taking their stage magic act into the lucrative vacation market, and how her Grandmama Angie had raised her since age six.

What the Newsman found most astounding was how easy it was for him to speak of things with her that he'd never, ever told anyone else. She could even match some of his worst experiences. Just last night, as he'd lain beside her with one arm gently over her stomach, a discussion on his anxiety over going back on the air had led to him confessing his very first humiliation in public speaking, in sixth grade. The report he'd presented on one of the Tom Swift books was his first attempt at delivering exciting copy before an audience. Not only had his classmates booed him, not only had the teacher simply sat there shaking her head, but when he'd promised them the entire Tom Swift series was "a real kick in the pants"…well.

Gina didn't laugh. She kissed his nose, and told him a story from her own childhood, of being ostracized for being "that crazy Gypsy kid"; how one of her classmates had even spit on her in the gym bleachers one day because his parents had told him Gypsies were filthy, cheating, lying people. Upset for her, Newsie had glared around the darkened room and said, "If they ever, _ever_ say anything like that to you again, you tell me, and I'll…I'll write such an exposé of the bigots they won't be able to walk out in public without being sued by a dozen different human rights groups!"

She did laugh at that, and stroked his cheek, and pulled him close for a kiss. "My fierce journalist, righter of wrongs."

"Information can change the world," he'd argued, and she'd kissed him into silence.

"So can you," she'd whispered, making him blush, and then the exchange had become rather non-vocal. At least, not coherently so…

"I love you," Newsie told her now, forgetting all about the pink shirt and new suit.

She smiled. "And I love you." She'd said those words to him every day now, starting right after the incredibly electric morning in the hospital. He'd never, never get tired of hearing them. She tugged his tie down a little; nervously he readjusted it tightly against his shirt-collar. She snickered at him. "Stop fussing! You look great!"

Tonight was his first official night back at KRAK. He'd spent a couple of hours this afternoon writing the news stories he planned to present tonight. The special on the dangers of psychokinetic energy and his own personal experience with it, which he and Rhonda had quickly filmed Monday and which had aired last night, seemed to have gone over well. At least it garnered decent reviews in the serious papers and on the _Huffington Post_ and _Scientific American_ sites, which was enough to mak Blanke stop a little of his constant worrying. Twice on Monday, while negotiating contracts and later picking a cameraman to start shooting the special, Newsie had overheard Blanke muttering something about the ACLU. That might be worth looking into later, Newsie thought, but for now, all that concerned him was the auction and Gina.

 _"_ _You_ look amazing," he responded, taking a moment to admire again the long off-the-shoulder dress of copper-colored satin with an overlay of dark russet lace. "I'll join you as soon as I can," he promised her.

"I know. I'll be fine, Newsie. Relax. And so will you." She smiled again.

"We should head downstairs; the cab will be here any minute," Newsie said, standing and helping Gina to her feet carefully. He wasn't sure her going out was such a good idea, but she'd insisted on attending the auction. She grimaced as she straightened up. "Are you okay? Did you remember to bring your pain medicine?"

"Newsie…I haven't taken the pain meds in over twenty-four hours."

"What? Why not?"

"Because they make me sleepy, and I want to be awake for this." She stroked his hair into place with soft hands, and met his concerned gaze with another smile. "I'm _fine._ Come on, Important Journalist! You have a broadcast to get to, and I have an auction to go people-watch at. Are there really going to be movie stars?"

"I hope so. I know we've invited a number of them." Together they left the apartment, went down to the lobby, and met the cab just as it pulled up to the curb. Her hand over his was a comfort as they sat close together in the back seat. With the salary the rats had helped him land, and a contract guaranteeing it for the next three years, he might be able to ride to work whenever he chose now. At the very least, tonight he'd make certain Gina wouldn't be put in any strain.

She played with the copper beads around her neck, and gave him a worried look. "I wish I could tell if something was going to hurt you from your report tonight."

Newsie flushed pink, but shook his head. "I'll be fine. Gina, I went years with no one to warn me, and no one caring enough to help. I'm used to it. At least now…at least now I have you," he said, looking into her eyes. When she bent her head he rose up to kiss her. Hearing her say she loved him every night was more than worth any pain he might suffer from a News Flash. She held onto him for the rest of their ride together, and he counted himself extraordinarily lucky.

Newsie dropped Gina off at the Sedgewick Hotel first, helping her from the street to the front door and kissing her hand so she wouldn't try to bend down. Once she was safely inside, he climbed back in the cab and sped toward his first night as the Special Muppet Correspondent and Investigative Reporter for KRAK, rereading his own typed news copy along the way. He hadn't shown it to her.

If tonight turned out as he hoped, maybe his friends would not only forgive but be able to quickly forget the damage he'd done.


	35. Chapter 35

"Uh, hey, boss? I think Alice Cooper's here," Scooter said, tapping Kermit's shoulder. Kermit swung around to see an attic's-worth of bats fluttering into the ballroom. Sure enough, right after them strode a thin, darkhaired man with a well-lined face. When he saw Kermit, he broke into a wide grin and headed right for him.

"Hey! Kermit! Man, I am _so_ jazzed to be here. This is going to be a fabulous night," he said. Kermit recognized the voice, and laughed awkwardly, shaking the man's hand.

"Uh…Alice! I almost didn't recognize you without your makeup!"

"Oh...yeah. These are just my street clothes. Don't worry, I'll do the face paint for the song; the fans expect it, I know. Hey, where's Dr Teeth and the band? I need to talk to them about the number we're doing."

"Uh…they're getting ready in the dressing room right now," Kermit replied. The hotel had allowed them to commandeer one of the larger public bathrooms to use as a dressing area, and Scooter had divided it into a men's and a women's section. "Scooter can show you the way."

"Oh, great, great, thanks! And, uh…my friends are cool, right?"

They both looked up at the bats now circling one of the crystal-dripping chandeliers. "Uh…sure," Kermit said. "If the Count shows up, they'll be in good company."

Happy, Cooper went off with Scooter. Kermit shook his head, wondering which of the notoriously loud musician's songs the band would be performing. And that was the opening act! Maybe he should warn everyone in his opening address tonight… And Julie Andrews had been caught in midtown traffic and was running late, and the Chef had somehow turned the ice sculpture of a swan into a turkey instead, and they'd had to take Gonzo's cannon away from Crazy Harry, and the hotel manager had already complained about Rizzo and Pepe making passes at female hotel guests in the elevators…it was shaping up to be a long night. Sighing, he looked around the ballroom. At least, with attendees beginning to arrive, some things _were_ actually going well: a number of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen had taken their seats and were thumbing through the programs or enjoying tiny dishes of delectables from the buffet. Steve Martin was on time, and dressed in a tux and metallic rainbow bowtie, and currently strolling with his banjo along the edge of the room, chatting with guests. Gorgon Heap and Sweetums had been put on guard duty in the hallway behind the ballroom where the auction items remained beneath their threatening glares until it was time to display them. Paul Williams, Paul Simon, and a number of the Muppets were gathered in one corner, talking happily. Kermit couldn't hear the discussion from where he stood near the entrance, but everyone looked pleased that he could see. Piggy hadn't arrived yet, insisting she needed more time for her makeup; he was certain she was only waiting for everyone else to get there so she could make a grand entrance at the last possible minute before the doors closed and the evening formally began. Ernie, Bert and Grover had come to represent the Sesame Street folks, and right now…Kermit looked around, then relaxed as he saw them leading Robin through the buffet line. Ernie pasted some pâté on Bert's nose, cackling – as did Robin, on Ernie's shoulder.

"Aha," a dry voice said. Kermit looked up to see a graying, bone-thin man in a dark gray suit and darker shades frowning at him. "Just the guy I wanted to see. Hey, Kermit. I got a bone to pick with you over that Muppet playing _me_ in that 'Law and Order: Special Letters Unit' skit."

"Oh…uh…hi, Mr Belzer. Well, I'm sorry you didn't care for it; I suggest you talk to the Sesame Street delegation over there," Kermit said, gulping. Belzer raised his shades briefly, checking the room, then with a nod and a scowl strolled on in. Kermit looked from him to another man, solidly built and balding, who crouched to shake his hand.

"Well, _we_ thought it was funny, didn't we, Dante?" the man said, grinning; the young boy with him looked awed to be meeting the famous Kermit the Frog.

"Oh, good! Nice to see you, Mr Meloni…and you, Ms Hargitay," Kermit greeted them, relaxing a little to see smiles. The television detectives were formally dressed and had brought their families, he saw, and felt that was a good sign. "That's a lovely dress, Ms Hargitay!" Though all black, the tea-length gown was covered with sparkling beads like a flapper's dearest party dress.

"Oh, please tell me I didn't wear what Piggy's wearing," Mariska said, wincing.

"Uh, I honestly don't know," Kermit gulped. "She's running a little late."

"Hey, did you know there was some paparazzo out on the sidewalk snapping pictures?" she asked him.

"Uh…no. Was he bothering you?"

"Nah. The other network's guys pulled up right behind us. I think they're dealing with him now," Mariska said, flashing the smile she usually used when her character was about to put some horrible perp in prison.

"Other network?" Kermit wondered as she continued in. He took a step back, happily surprised at the people who walked in as a group next. "Oh, wow! Hey, it's the cast of 'CSI: New York'! Did _all_ of you come tonight?"

A curly-haired woman smiled at him. "Yep. We're all huge fans, Kermit!" She nodded back toward the hotel lobby. "Gary's takin' care of some obnoxious little reporter out front. He'll be in in a sec."

The cast shook hands quickly, moving into the ballroom, the group disintegrating into individuals as fans in the audience approached to say hello, and Carmine and Anna engaged in a race to the buffet line: "Hey! They have those little roast beef sandwiches!"

Robert Joy was already giving the Swedish Chef a dubious look. "Uh, do you want help carving that? I do actually have some experience…"

A clean-cut man with deep eyes strode up, brushing dust from his tux jacket. Kermit nodded at him. "Gary! Good to see you guys! Did that photographer give you any trouble?"

"Not after I stuffed him in a trash can and set him out back," Sinese replied, smiling. "Wow, some crowd! You know, I'm really sorry to hear about the theatre. I wish there was more we could do, but we figured all of us turning up might help, and anyway it looks like it'll be fun."

"Well thank you, thank you!" Kermit said, relieved. They had a decent turnout of local celebs, at the very least. Maybe tonight would actually raise enough to at least start renovations…maybe a miracle _could_ happen…maybe…

CRASH!

"Uh…Sam? Could you stand here and greet the guests a minute?" Kermit asked, hurriedly pushing the eagle next to the front doors of the ballroom and dashing toward the back hall. _Then again…never mind,_ he thought, resigned.

Fozzie and Rowlf were on the lookout for Gina, and as soon as they spotted her entering the lobby they rushed over and offered their arms. Laughing, Gina accepted both, and with slow steps they escorted her into the ballroom. "Isn't…isn't Newsie coming?" Fozzie asked uncertainly, looking around.

"He'll be late. He has his first newscast tonight, back at the TV station," Gina explained. "I hope you guys saved me a good seat where I can see all the famous stars!"

"I hope you brought your autograph book," Rowlf said, smiling.

They seated her at a table where Gonzo and Camilla already were. "Sweetie, I think maybe you ought to slow down," Gonzo was telling Camilla as the chicken upended a second champagne flute. He looked apologetically at Gina. "She gets really nervous at formal events."

Gina noted the blue whatever had dressed up for the occasion. "Snazzy threads," she told him.

"Oh thanks, you think?" Pleased, Gonzo turned his sleeves this way and that for her. His tuxedo jacket was of traditional cut, but white, and covered almost completely in chickenfeathers. "The David L'azour look. I heard it was stylish to match what your lady's wearing," he confided.

Gina nodded sagely. Rowlf brought her a glass of the champagne and a small plate of hors d'oeuvres. "Don't worry…the hotel kitchen prepared them," he assured her. They all looked back at the carving table, where the Chef was singing as he tossed a knife sharpener into the air.

"Thank you," Gina said. She scanned the crowd, waving briefly at Scott, who sat in a niche near the front doors, behind a small portable lighting board rigged for the concert portions of the night. He grinned broadly, waved back, and held up a bottle of his favorite ginger beer, which the hotel actually carried. Happy at least one of her Sosilly friends had pitched in, Gina relaxed, nibbling at the prawn crackers with manchego and some sort of tropical-fruit tart as she continued to look around the room. Her eyes widened. "Ohmygosh, is that Brooke Shields? And that's Kathy Griffin…and that's…" She frowned, puzzled. "Rudy Giuliani?"

Rowlf nodded. "We do have a few friends in high places. Oh, wow! Woof, woof!" he called, startling Gina until she realized he was talking to a couple of elderly Dalmatians walking a few tables away. "That's Pondo and Priam! They were child stars, and then went into the fire department here," he told Gina.

"Oh no! Richard Belzer is here!" Fozzie groaned, hiding behind his hat. He'd put on a white collar and black tie over his fur coat, at least.

"What's wrong with Belzer? He used to do stand-up too, you know," Gina said.

"I know! And now he's all famous on dat crime show!" Fozzie leaned in to murmur to her, "I don't actually watch his show. Da bad guys on it are really mean and scary."

"Hey! Fozzie Bear!" The Belz came to their table, smiling, and took off his shades. "You know, I've always wanted to tell you I love your shtick! Reminds me of Buddy Ibsen. Are you working tonight?"

"Ahhhh…wuh…sure?" Fozzie said, looking helplessly at the others.

"You want his act, you got it," Rowlf assured the actor. Belzer grinned at them, clapped Fozzie on the back, put his shades back on, and strolled off.

"So, what jokes are you doing?" Gonzo asked.

Fozzie crumpled. Rowlf patted his arm sympathetically. "Uh, guess you better go tell Kermit you're going on tonight!"

Gina winced as the bear rolled out of his chair and went wailing after the frog, who was conferring with Whoopi Goldberg at the stage. "Keerrrmmiiiiiiiiit!"

The others sighed. Gonzo turned to Gina. "So, how's the Newsman doing? Isn't tonight his first newscast back on the air?"

"Yes. He's a little anxious, I think, but I'm sure he'll do fine."

"Well, great!" Gonzo smiled at her. Gina smiled in return, but quietly worried. She had no way of knowing what might happen to him tonight. She hoped he didn't have any stories to deliver involving wars or muggings or cows. Sighing, trying to simply trust that he'd be all right, and be here soon, she focused on the stage. The room lights dimmed a little, a brighter light came up on the podium atop the center platform, and the Electric Mayhem settled into place on their risers, instruments in hand.

Miss Piggy swept into the room, to Kermit's visible relief. She wore a trailing dress of blue-green sateen, with a beaded bodice and a bolero stole covered in peacock tailfeathers. Sapphires dangled from her ears and down into her décolletage, and an emerald graced a ring on her right hand. "Helloooo, everyone! Thank you! Thank you!" It was hard to tell whether she was thanking the assemblage for attending or for looking at her fabulous peacock-themed dress.

"Oh, cool! Camilla, it's starting!" Gonzo exclaimed. His chickie clucked excitedly, and they scooted their chairs closer together to hold hand and wing in anticipation. Gina wished Newsie was here already, wondering suddenly why he'd said he _had_ to start tonight, when he knew this was the date of the auction? Surely, in all those contract negotiations, he could've specified tomorrow as his start date, or even next week? Frowning, she dug out her phone and texted him, but no response came; he must already be in the news studio. Kermit stepped up to the podium to a loud round of applause. People returned to their seats at the numerous tables, where candles in votive holders illuminated the eager faces and whispers were shushed.

"Welcome, everybody! I'm Kermit the Frog, and on behalf of all the Muppets, we're very happy so many of you have come here tonight!" Kermit began, the podium mic carrying his words throughout the room. Whoopi stood next to him in a fitted tux with sparkly dust in her hair, beaming. Annoyed at the lack of a reply to her text, Gina put the phone away, trying to give the event her full attention, but she wondered what her Muppet journalist was up to.

She hoped, whatever it was, he wouldn't get hurt.

The Newsman checked his appearance one last time in his dressing-room mirror. He had to share the room with another field reporter, but at least it was an actual _room_ , with its own bathroom and a large mirror and even a desk behind a partition, next to a glazed window, where he might work on stories if he wished. Honeydew and Beaker had promised to help him shop for his own laptop this coming weekend, as he knew almost nothing about current technology beyond how to use a word processing program and search the Internet, and the station had provided a printer. He could work on his _own_ reports here. He repeated all this to himself, trying to convince himself everything was going to be swell.

A knock sounded on the door. "Enter," he called, and Rhonda peeked in, then threw the door open and stomped inside, a clipboard in one hand and a headset covering one ear.

"Aren't you pretty enough _yet?"_ She growled, tapping one foot. "Come on! We're two minutes to air!"

"I'm ready," he said, taking a deep breath. With quick, purposeful strides he left the dressing-room and went along the hall to the studio. Rhonda hurried alongside him.

"So did you finalize the story lineup? I'm thinking the Koozebanian condemnation of the Libyan government ought to come before the thing with Marvin Suggs' trial for Endangered Species Act violations…and Kazagger's ready with the Muppet college baseball scores, whenever you get pummeled by something."

Newsie shot her a glare. "I'm not going to get pummeled! _I_ wrote the stories!"

"Uh huh," Rhonda said. "Whatever. You wanna coffee, the stuff's over there." She pointed to a table against one wall holding a coffee urn and paper cups, but Newsie thought he was keyed up enough already without caffeine. "Here's your chair, there's the director, I gotta go make sure your title graphic got put into the rotation right." Rhonda vanished, although a second later he heard her squeaking indignantly at someone who almost stepped on her. He looked in surprise at the dark canvas chair sitting next to the regular anchor's, a few feet away from the set. The chair was scaled to his height, and had _Muppet Newsman_ stenciled on the back so no one would mistake his chair for theirs. _His_ chair! Newsie touched the back of it in wonder. He'd never had his own chair before.

Murray nodded at him, absently watching the anchor and other news team members settling in behind the large curved desk in front of the cameras. Nodding back, feeling both excited and horribly anxious, Newsie sat down and glanced at his notes. The news director came over. Newsie hadn't worked with this man before, and looked up nervously at him. "You know the lineup? Good. Where's your mic? You aren't miked? Hey, Larry, get a mic on this guy! Okay we good? Great! Thirty seconds!" he called, returning to a spot between the two cameras and glaring at the reporters and the anchorman as they all turned on bright smiles. Newsie, flustered, tried to keep still as a techie clipped a tiny mic to his tie, where it was almost invisible, and told him, "Say something, but quietly."

"Uh…what should I say?"

"That's fine. We've got you," the techie said, and disappeared. The Newsman had almost forgotten how chaotic live news felt outside of the Muppet Theatre. This wasn't helping his anxiety in the least.

"And live in three…" The director gestured at the news desk. Theme music sounded, the lights on the set brightened, and the anchor smiled into the first camera.

"Good evening! I'm Bart Fargo. Welcome to Big Apple News on KRAK. Tonight: more protests across the middle east! We'll have a report from special correspondent Jack Elán in Tunisia, where refugees are beginning to stream in from neighboring Libya."

"And I'm Susan Popatopolis. Rain, rain, and more rain on the way! Looks like it's going to be a wet spring across much of the nation, and especially here! We'll take a look at what that could mean for the resident reservoir catfish population."

"Baseball spring training is finishing up! _Who_ could break from the pack this year? _Who_ will be traded to whom? And _what_ performance-enhancing jellybeans will be banned by the majors this Easter? I'm Lewis Kazagger filling in for Rog 'the stodge' Franklin with _all_ your sports news!" Newsie hoped Kazagger had forgiven him for the accident at the restaurant. He hadn't had the chance yet to explain anything.

"Later in the program, the return of Special Muppet Correspondent the Newsman; Wall Street news; and a roller-skating gerbil. Stay tuned right here on KRAK!" The anchor smiled, setting aside his intro notes as the cameras cut to the sponsor ads. Newsie fidgeted with his string bracelet. Although it was only a bracelet now, he refused to take it off, tucking it farther up his wrist so it wouldn't show below his shirtsleeve. If there was such a thing as luck, he needed all he could get, and having a little of Gina with him had to be a good thing, he believed. Something tapped his knee, and he jumped, jerking his head down.

Rhonda shook her head, glaring. "You are. _Such_. An idiot."

"What is it?" he hissed at her; the program would be back live in only a moment.

"I just figured it out. You _wanted_ to do your first report tonight. The night of the auction."

"So?" Newsie drew himself up, trying to appear nonchalant and confident.

She sighed. "Fine. Look, whatever you're planning, don't damage the mic. It comes out of the special reports budget, and that's _my_ salary as well as yours." Giving him a stern look, she hurried off again.

The Newsman exhaled slowly. Had he been that obvious? Disappointed, he looked around at the news crew, all of whom were focused on the set, where Bart Fargo was introducing a clip sent in by their overseas reporter. No one was looking at Newsie. Still tense, he tried to sit still, waiting for his turn to go on-camera after the weather. It was about time his jinx worked in the Muppets' favor.

Kermit got out of Fozzie's way as the bear danced sideways off the platform to a flourish of his theme from the band and scattered applause. "That was fine, Fozzie. Nice jokes," Kermit said, trying to bolster the bear's obviously tattered ego.

"Oh, Kermit, I can't look! Is he laughing?"

"Who?"

"Richard Belzer! Ohhhh, I hope he thought I was funny!"

Kermit peered into the crowd, eventually seeing the actor clapping at a table with his "SVU" co-stars. "He seems happy, Fozzie."

"Oh, good," Fozzie sighed, and perked up somewhat. "Hey, I wonder if I could be on his show? I could be da funny comedian who provides da clue to solve da case!"

"Uh, Fozzie, do you know what _kind_ of cases those detectives cover?" Kermit asked, but Fozzie was already happily trotting off to the bottled-water cooler. Kermit shook his head, watching in mixed anxiety and appreciation as Whoopi thanked the audience for applauding, and introduced Paul Simon. The event so far was going better than Kermit had hoped.

The first number had surprised Kermit; instead of some hard-rock song, Alice Cooper had led vocals with the Mayhem for "Can You Picture That?", which the crowd had loved. Whoopi had proved a competent auctioneer, and the first lot of celebrity-donated items had sold quickly: a gorgeous necklace of dark crystals and rare carved jet which Liza Minelli's agent had brought them that afternoon; an acoustic guitar belonging to Paul Simon, who also autographed it; and Paul Williams had received applause when Whoopi had informed the gathering that the composer would personally craft a song for the winning bidder on the subject of their choice. Kermit hadn't consulted Scooter yet on what the total intake was thus far; maybe, he decided, it would be better to just wait until the auction was ended and tally it all then. Wonderful though their friends had been tonight, and generous as the bids had been thus far, they honestly didn't have a lot of items, and he was dubious about Whoopi's and Scooter's decision to save the Muppet-specific items for the last lot. Surely, a necklace from Liza was going to tally up higher bids than, say, boomerang-fish-throwing lessons…

The opening chords of "Loves Me Like a Rock" began, and Kermit put his worry aside for a while, trying to simply enjoy the song as Paul Simon strummed, the band joined in (he didn't think he'd ever seen Animal playing tambourine before), and a light came up on the backup singers. "When I was just a boy…"

Robin, Beauregard, Beaker, and the Swedish Chef echoed, _"When I was just a boy…" "Mee meeee meep me mee…" "Guuurn de fol der boo…"_

"Oh, boy," Kermit sighed.

"And the Devil would call my name…I'd say now who do…"

 _"_ _Oooooo…" "Meeeeee…" "Woooo…"_

"Who do you think you're foolin'?"

The audience loved it, laughing and clapping along. Paul had a hard time recalling the words for the next line every time the chorus of Muppets joined in, but clearly he was having a blast. By the end of the song, many people in the crowd were singing along, and Paul was enjoying a tradeoff with Beaker: "Loooves me like a rock!"

 _"_ _Mee mee mee mee mee meeeeeee!"_

Over at one of the Muppet tables, Gina was laughing so hard her ribs hurt. Brushing off Gonzo's concern, she tried to get herself under control, and accepted another glass of champagne from Rowlf. "I love him _way_ more than his mother ever did," Gina told Camilla, who clucked and nodded. The two of them had already mistaken each other's glass for their own at some point, but neither cared. Gina thought she might be beginning to understand the chicken quite well, as another woman who saw wonderful things in a social misfit.

"Paul Simon, ladies and gentlemen, with the Electric Mayhem and our own Muppet backup singers!" More applause. The laughter subsided as Whoopi took over the podium once more. "Okay, let's get back to the auction! Next up we have a very curious souvenir, sent to us by express today from Sir Elton John: it is a diamond-studded, personally autographed…stuffed crocodile!"

The Newsman stood just to one side of the anchor on a small platform the crew had set there for him, as this desk was higher than his own back at the Muppet Theatre. He held tight to his notes, gulping dryly, waiting as Fargo took the lead back from Ms Popatopolis. Rhonda was perched on someone else's chair just behind the cameras, watching anxiously. "Thanks, Susan. And now, we at KRAK are proud to present a familiar face we're happy to have back with us. Here, with a special report on Muppet happenings around town and the globe, is the Newsman." The second camera was already swung around and aiming at Newsie; the director pointed his finger right at him, and Newsie cleared his throat and began his report.

"Ahem. Thank you, Bart. Here is a breaking Muppet News bulletin: at this moment, a charity auction featuring stars of the performing arts is taking place at the Sedgewick Hotel! The auction, which showcases a number of _unique_ and _collectible_ items from the Muppets themselves as well as noted celebrities, is being held to raise enough funds to reconstruct the historic Muppet Theatre. As some of you know from my special report last night, the theatre was badly damaged when a torrent of psychokinetic energy was unleashed within its walls!" He glanced up, but so far nothing was bearing down on him. Rhonda was gesturing wildly at him. Ignoring her, he kept his face turned to the camera, swallowed dryly, checked his notes again, and continued. "Although the Muppets hope to raise enough funds to at least _begin_ the daunting task of rebuilding the theatre, troupe leader Kermit the Frog is quoted as saying, 'It would take a _million-dollar miracle_ to get this place running again!'"

Rhonda put her paws over her eyes. "Oh, no. That _idiot…"_

The Newsman heard gasps from the crew a split second before the weight pounded him to the floor.

A commotion caught Kermit's attention at the front doors. They were supposed to remain closed throughout the auction, with Sam ensuring only celebrities or other ticket-holders would be allowed in during any breaks. However, now they were flung wide, and a very aghast eagle ran in behind a woman with a wildly poufed tutu and multicolored hair, who led a delegation of similarly-informal ladies of varying ages. "Miss! Miss, you _cannot_ come in without a ticket! I _must_ protest!"

"'Ey, lay off, Baldy, or I'll pluck ya' wings for a new hat!" the woman in the lead cackled at him. She made her way straight to the stage. Whoopi shaded her eyes from the podium light, peering at the women taking over a table in the center of the room.

"Cyndi? That you, girl?" Whoopi asked.

"You betcher a— it is, sweetheart!" the pop star yelled. "Hi, Kermit! Hi everyone!"

Kermit hurried over, waving the outraged eagle off. "It's okay, Sam. I've got it. Uh…Ms Lauper? We didn't know you were coming!"

"Heck, _I_ didn't know I was comin'! I was ridin' around with my goils, ya know, goils' night out…"

"Goils," Kermit repeated, looking at the bevy of oddly-dressed women calling for champagne and nibbles. "Uh...gotcha." Piggy joined him, glaring daggers at the singer, who'd managed to make an even more impressive entrance than she had.

"Anyways, we had da TV on in da limo, and who comes on but dat cute little yella guy dat did news for you back in da day? And he says, get yer butts over to da Sedgewick for da auction! And you know me, I just _love_ charity events! So here we are!" Cyndi saw Piggy. "Oh, Miss Piggy! Oh, this is so cool! Ya know, I've _always_ wanted to do a song with ya! Come on up here!"

"With _moi?_ Well, that is very–" Before Piggy could recover any poise, Cyndi grabbed her by the hand and dragged her onto the risers. Scooter immediately brought both of them microphones.

 _"_ _You_ know what I wanna sing!" Cyndi told the Electric Mayhem, who all laughed, nodding, and instantly struck up "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." The audience cheered, and Kermit sighed, relieved. Well, if they had to have gate-crashers, at least it was a gate-crasher who could work a crowd.

Cyndi yelled the first verse to loud cheering and whistling around the room, then gave Piggy a friendly shove. "Take it, Piggy!"

"Er…Somebody takes a beautiful girl and hides her away from the rest of the woooolrd," Piggy sang, recovering enough to give it her best energy. _"Moi_ wants to be the one to walk in the sun!"

They sang together, "Oh girls, just want to have fun…oh girls just want to have fuuuun!"

"Wo-man! Wo-man!" Animal agreed enthusiastically as he beat the drums.

When the song finally wound down, Cyndi yelled into her mic, "Now I wanna see some high biddin' goin' on here! Let's get the Muppets back inta show biz!"

Kermit kissed Piggy as she came panting offstage. "That was great, Piggy!"

"How the heck does she do it?" Piggy muttered, accepting a hand towel to mop her neck and a bottle of cool water from her frog. "She's older than I am!"

The other celebrity items had already been sold. One was another guitar, this one a Fender donated by Alice Cooper, in the shape of a bat, which the Count von Count won after a fierce bidding war (and which he announced would be a gift for a friend whose eyes weren't good, but ears were fine enough to learn _many_ chords; he was escorted to the back hallway to claim his item before he could finish counting all the many wonderful chords his friend could learn on such a batty instrument). The second, an actual lasso used by Lynda Carter during her tenure as Wonder Woman, had escalated all the way to three thousand dollars when it was sold to Joss Whedon. Kermit wondered what the total was now; in a few minutes they'd be moving into the blocks of Muppet-donated items and services, and he wasn't sure people would be as forthcoming with their cash. Had Cyndi said the Newsman had made an announcement about the auction? That was good, but he doubted it would draw in anyone else before the night ended; such a report really should have been done earlier in the day, before the auction began.

Scooter ran up. "Piggy! You're on next!"

"Oh, no," Piggy groaned. "I look terrible!" She patted her hair, tugged her dress down to expose a bit more of her generous bosom, and bounced back up the steps to the makeshift stage.

"You look wonderful," Kermit said, smiling at her. Hearing him, Piggy gave him a grateful smile, then composed herself. She took a deep breath, turned slowly to face the audience, and tossed back her blonde waves of hair as Zoot and Lips launched into the jazzy classic she'd picked as being perfect for the occasion, with Rowlf, Animal, Floyd and Janice joining in.

"You had a-plenty money, nineteen-twenty-two; you let other women make a fool of you…Why don't you dooo right, like some other men do?" Piggy sang, striking a pose with one hand on her hip. "Get out of here, and get me some money toooo!"

The crowd cheered, applauding. Piggy paused only a second to bat her eyes at them before the next verse. "You're sitting 'round wondering what it's all about; if you have no money they will – put you out!" She did a bump and grind, to the audience's very vocal approval. "Why don't you doooo right, like some other men do? Get out of here, and get me some money toooo!"

The sashaying, flirtatious moves she showed off at the end of the song brought down the house, and she stood, flushed, in the spotlight for some time, curtseying and tossing out _merci's_. When Rowlf tried to take her arm as he exited the platform, she gave him a fierce look. "Watch it, buster!" However, realizing the auction couldn't continue until she left the stage, she blew kisses at the crowd and stepped down. "I'll be right back. I gotta get outta these heels," she muttered at Kermit, hurrying past.

Whoopi turned over the podium to Steve Martin. "Hey! All riiight! It's great to be here at the Fourth Annual Orthodontic Surgeon's…what? This _isn't_ the Orthodontic Surgeon's annual convention?" Looking frustrated, Steve blew out his cheeks. "Oh, that's just great! _Just_ great! So much for all the jokes I had about gum disease!" Sighing deeply, he shook his head. "Well, fine. I guess we'll just have to… _auction off some Muppet stuff instead!"_

The sweeping shouts and applause from the crowd at that were more than Kermit had expected; he looked around from his seat with growing pleasure. Several tables back, Gonzo, Fozzie, and Rowlf were standing and applauding, and Gina, though seated, was holding Camilla over her head and whooping. Camilla seemed to be having fun as well, waving her wings and bawking loudly.

"All right! First up we have something special from my favorite comedian, Fozzie Bear! Fozzie has donated for us…his first… _rubber…chicken! Wokka-wokka-wokka!"_

"Hey Steve, dat's _my_ line!" Fozzie called.

"Shall we start the bidding at…one hundred dollars! What? No? Okay…two hundred dollars! …Still no, huh? All right, all right… _one!_ Who'll give me _one dollar_ for this fabulous, uh…mildewy…ewww…badly painted rubber chicken!" Steve called out, dangling the rubber chicken tenuously by his thumb and forefinger.

"Five hundred!" someone yelled.

Steve peered into the audience. "Seriously, Belz? I mean…it really _is_ pretty gross…"

Laughter all around. "Five hundred dollars," Belzer repeated in a loud, firm voice.

"Okay then! Anyone else?" More giggles. "Going once…going twice…" He banged the podium with a croquet mallet. _"Sold_ to that idiot in the fr—uh, to my good friend Richard Belzer! Thank you! Moving along…"

Something cold numbed the pulsing pain in his skull. Something touched his leg. "Gina…?" Newsie muttered, slowly reaching up to feel the cold compress atop his head.

"You better be glad she's _not_ here," Rhonda sniffed. She let go of the compress as Newsie's searching fingers took hold of it. She was standing on his chair arm as he sprawled in it just off the set. "She is soooo gonna hurt you when she finds out what you did!"

In a great deal of pain, but beginning to feel rather pleased with himself, Newsie smiled. "Gina never hurts me."

"Maybe she ought to," Rhonda grumbled.

He tried to peer around. When he attempted to adjust his glasses, they snapped in half across the bridge. He let them drop to the floor. "Urgh…did it work?"

Rhonda sighed. "You shoulda specified large bills. It woulda hurt less."

The Newsman leaned forward, keeping the compress on his head, holding to the arm of his chair with the other hand, to see an enormous brown sack at his feet. He studied it quizzically, then looked at Rhonda. "That's a million dollars?"

"No. _That_ is approximately a hundred thousand…in gold coins. It fell on you _first."_

The Newsman stared around, his blurry vision making out several more full sacks piled like a fortress wall around his chair. He looked at Rhonda. She shook her head at him, exasperated. "How many times do I have to repeat this, anyway? You. Are. An _idiot!"_

Newsie started to chuckle, then as the joy of what he'd pulled off sank in, he burst into loud guffaws. Eventually Rhonda gave in, giggling. Newsie held tight to his chair, shaking and laughing. "Whaa ha ha ha ha haha!…ow."

Rhonda shook her head again. "So how were you planning on getting this there, genius?"

Newsie pressed the compress against his pounding (and pounded) head, and gave a tiny shrug. "You're…you're my assistant, right? You figure it out," he whispered, noise and movement suddenly seeming like really bad ideas.

"I am your _news editor,_ not your assistant!" the rat snapped. She looked around the studio; everyone else had gone home an hour ago, leaving them with only the security guards and a janitor. A janitor! Whipping out her cell, Rhonda dialed the Sedgewick. "Hello? Yes, I need to reach someone at the Muppet Theatre charity event. Beauregard. Okay, if you could please tell him to bring the truck and an extra body – no, wait. Just tell him to drive the truck over with a couple of the stagepigs to the KRAK studios on sixth. Great. Thank you!" She hung up, and glared disgustedly at the Newsman. "Well, you did it. You realize I have to disavow _all_ prior knowledge of this mess to Gina."

Newsie slumped in the chair, both hands now holding the compress to his head, eyes shut tight. "Could you…please…not squeak so loud," he whispered.

The selloff of Muppet items had been a mixed bag: Kermit's tap shoes, which he'd worn for the "Happy Feet" number years ago, engendered a decent bidding war for nearly ten minutes. On the other hand, very few people offered anything for the Chef's personal recipe book (written completely in Mock Swedish, of course), and Pepe stormed off in a huff when absolutely no one bid on a date with him. A traveling circus ringmaster bought the cannon. Several local actors had gone back and forth to win acting lessons from Uncle Deadly, but the prize ultimately had gone to a young woman in Goth dress, and after one look, the phantom dragon had suggested they begin working on "the method" immediately with a study of romantic scenarios. No one had seen either of them since.

To break up the bidding a little and keep aloft a festive mood, the band had adopted a Dixieland style, with Steve Martin leading on banjo, and Scooter taking over the singing duties for a peppy song called "Got My Own Thing Now," which he'd told Kermit was by some band called the Squirrel Nut Zippers. Kermit thought about asking Steve back to the show to perform the number again, tapping his flippers in time to the upbeat tune, before he remembered he had no idea whether there would ever _be_ another show at the theatre. At least, he thought, looking around, everyone was enjoying themselves. He felt Piggy's touch on his hand, and tried to smile for her. She could tell he was still worried, and stroked his webby fingers gently. "I am sure it'll all work out, Kermie," she said softly.

"I'm sure you're right, Piggy," he replied, and tried not to let his hopes grow too high as Steve set aside his banjo, poured a glass of water over his head to cool off, and resumed the auction.

"O-kay! _That_ was sure fun!" Panting, he waved out Sweetums with the next item, a disabled raygun from "Pigs in Space." "And what am I bid for this…uh…this fabulous, gorgeous…uh, what the heck _is_ that, anyway?"

The raygun sold decently enough, and some sympathetic fan bought Beau's favorite mop, and then restored it to him for the price of his autograph on a photo. Right after, Kermit saw Beau grabbing a couple of the pigs and heading out the back; he assumed someone had left a mess in the bathroom. Probably Rizzo. The rat's own contribution, a Vermont white cheddar encased in uncracked wax from 1976, was only bid upon by rats, but at least it sold. Lew Zealand's boomerang-fish throwing lessons were awarded to a tall, well-worn gent; to Kermit's surprise, Scooter informed him that was Christopher Walken. The house-party jam session offered up by the Electric Mayhem proved a popular item, and the brothers of Delta House (Kermit never heard at which university they were enrolled) whooped and danced when they ultimately won the bidding. A cadre of Wall Street banker types warred fiercely over Scooter's PA services-for-a-week; Kermit shuddered when he saw the winning man in an expensive suit paying for his win out of a briefcase labeled _Bitterman Banking and Loans._ "Uh…Scooter? Be careful," Kermit warned.

"Don't worry, boss. I heard her little brother is running the place now, and he's a decent guy; Mr MacNeil over there told me," Scooter said as he passed by Kermit's table, indicating the respected journalist sitting across the room.

"Oh. Okay," Kermit said, relieved. He'd worked with that half of the MacNeil-Lehrer team, and knew no bad information would ever come from them.

"Oh Kermit, I'm so sorry I'm late!" The lovely lady sliding into a seat at his table cheered Kermit immediately. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then the same for Piggy. "How's it all going so far?"

"Hi, Julie! It's going all right, I guess. I'm really glad to see you," Kermit responded. At least they'd have a good closing number…which might be the last closing number, ever. Kermit tried not to think about that.

The last item made Steve pop his eyes wide. "Wow! Okay! So…we're down to the last item here, guys! Aaaaaand it is…her!" Martin pointed down at Piggy. As a surprised murmur swept the crowd, Piggy stood; Scott obligingly swung one of the band's mini spotlights down to frame her in its glow. Her jewelry sparkled; her dress gleamed. Piggy smiled and waved her fingers. "That's right, all you pork fanciers! The last item to bid on tonight is a date with _Miss Piggy!_ Wow! Hey Kermit, can I bid on this one?"

"No," Piggy growled to her frog. Kermit laughed, shaking his head.

"So hey, what say we start this off at one hund—"

 _"_ _Five,"_ Piggy snapped loudly.

"Hey, who's doing this? I mean, if you think you can _chew the fat_ up here better than me," Martin said, "If you believe you have a _wider_ experience at this than I do, you go right ahead and—"

"Watch it, jerk," Piggy yelled up at him.

"Geez, okay, okay! Five hundred dollars! Who'll give me five hundred?"

Kermit was pleased when the date finally went to Whoopi, who joked to the catcalling crowd, "What? I dig torch singers!" Piggy seemed relieved as well, and Kermit knew his love would be safe in their friend's hands for a night. Knowing the two of them, they'd probably get into more trouble out on the town together than any young playboy might've. As Steve turned over the podium to Whoopi one last time, Kermit noticed the Newsman staggering from table to table, apologizing to everyone he inadvertently bumped along the way. Apparently he'd had no better luck with his new job than at the old one, Kermit thought, but didn't have time to dwell on it, hopping onto the platform with Julie Andrews for the last song. He gulped down a lump in his throat, telling himself if this was the last number, to do it as a pro.

Newsie reached Gina and nearly fell when he tried to sit down next to her; the chair she'd left empty for him seemed to be moving quite a bit. "Hi," he said, finding her hand and clinging to it with both of his.

 _"_ _There_ he is! There's my cutie!" Gina kissed him, and he winced.

"Gina…could you…go gently…please…"

She stared at him, leaning in, looking as blurry as he felt. "You broke another pair of glasses?"

"Sorry," he muttered. "What did I miss?"

Gonzo laughed. "Well, pretty much the whole thing! This is the closing number!"

"Oh…sorry," Newsie said, squinting up at the stage. The audience quieted as the band began playing softly.

Gina stared hard at him; he suddenly understood he wasn't the only one weaving in place. "So where've you been? We missed you," she said, and plunked a half-full champagne glass in front of him. "Here…I saved you some."

Newsie put his nose right in front of hers to see her clearly; she giggled, and kissed it. "Gina? Are you…are you, er, a little tipsy?"

Rowlf chuckled. Gonzo sighed. Camilla clucked in mirth, flopped upon the table with one of Gonzo's arms around her protectively.

On stage, Julie and Kermit swayed a little in time to the music. "When I heard what had happened to the Muppet Theatre, and to my dear friend Kermit, I just had to come," Julie told the audience. "Because when my friends are in trouble, I feel what they feel, and I just want to make it all better right away." Smiling down at the frog, she began singing, "When you're down…and troubled…and you need a helping hand; when nothing, nothing is going right…close your eyes and think of me, and soon I will be there, to brighten up even your darkest night…"

Kermit joined her. "You just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I'll come running, to see you again… Winter, spring, summer, or fall; all you have to do is call…and I'll be there… You've got a friend."

Gina pulled Newsie onto her lap, wrapping her arms around his waist. Dizzy, he braced his hands against the table, but didn't object. By the second chorus, he was even able to join in, though he'd never regarded himself as much of a singer. This one he at least knew the words to, and besides, Gina's voice in his ear soothed his heart, if not his still-pounding brain. All around the room, people were softly singing along: "You've got a friend, oh yeah…you've got a friend."

The applause went on a long time. Scott brought the room lights back up, and the band continued to play. "We're all your friends, Kermit; everyone! And we all hope the Muppet Theatre will be up and running again soon, and bringing us all the wonderful acts we've loved through the years," Julie said, to the general approval of the crowd. Kermit felt his eyes tearing up; looking down at Piggy, he held out his hand to her, and she quickly joined him on the platform, as did Whoopi, and his nephew Robin, and the Sesame Street gang, and Steve stood behind them as well, everyone hugging.

Beauregard tapped Scooter's shoulder. "Hey, where do you want the bags?"

"What bags? Beau, can't you see this is kind of a _moment?"_ Scooter asked.

"Oh. Okay. Sorry. Uh, I guess we'll put them with the other money in the hallway," Beau said, and called out to the pigs lugging heavy sacks through the room, "Hey! Don't drag all that money through here! We need to take it to the hallway where the monsters can guard it, okay?"

Kermit stared at him. "Beauregard? What are you talking about?" People nearest the grunting, weighed-down stagepigs were exclaiming at the sacks. A ripple of excitement spread through the room.

Confused, Beau turned. "Oh, _there_ you are, Kermit! Don't worry! I won't interrupt! We'll just take all this money around and put it with the other donations!"

More pigs, and now a couple of Whatnots and one of the larger monsters, entered with more sacks, but Beau ran to stop them. Kermit yelled at him, "Beauregard, _what_ money? What _is_ all that?"

"Oh," Beau said, frowning as he tried to remember what the little blonde rat had told him. "Uh…this is from A Nonny Mouse. It's a donation to help fix the theatre."

"A Nonny…" Kermit sighed. "Well, great! How much is there?"

"Uhhhh…a million dollars." Beau waved. "You go back to your moment. We'll take care of this! Come on, guys, this way…"

Kermit staggered back; Piggy's jaw dropped; Steve caught them both. Whoopi gaped, then whooped. Julie gave a happy little shriek and caught Kermit up in a hug before giving him back to Piggy. The audience gasped, then applauded.

"Wow!" Gonzo said. Rowlf stared at the departing sacks. Scooter recovered his wits before any of the rest of them and ran to make sure nothing got lost. Gina frowned at all this, then blearily turned Newsie by the shoulders so she could see him. He was smiling, but dropped it from his face when he realized she was looking at him.

"Newsie…?"

He gulped. "Uh. Yes?"

"Did you have anything to do with this?"

"Where would I get a million dollars?" he argued weakly, but wasn't able to hide his wince of pain when she touched his forehead.

Gina glared at him. "Oh, tell me you _didn't."_

"I swear to you I had _no idea_ what he was up to," Rhonda squeaked shrilly, hopping onto the table. The other Muppets at the table and neighboring ones were turning to look at him.

"I didn't," Newsie said, giving Gina his most serious face. The blush he could feel creeping over his cheeks didn't help, however. He looked around, eyes almost shut, the lack of glasses and head injury doubly affecting his vision. "Don't. Don't say anything. Please. Ow."

"Now that's using your head," Rowlf snickered.

"Please don't tell anyone…ow. Can we…can we go home now?" Newsie asked gruffly, feeling as though he'd be sick if the room kept swaying like that.

"That sounds a lot better _this_ time," Gonzo said, smiling. Camilla clucked, snuggling with him happily.

"Wuh…well…I…folks, I guess…I guess we're back in business!" Kermit said, finally overcoming his astonishment. The audience cheered. Muppets clapped and cried and hugged one another. "We're gonna rebuild!" A happy clamor filled the room. Probably it was loud enough to get them kicked out of the hotel, but who cared? Laughing, overjoyed, Kermit kissed Piggy, looked out over all the smiling, cheering faces, and saw a large brown dog carefully leading Gina and the Newsman from the room. Newsie stumbled, and Gina caught him, then stumbled herself and had to be righted by Rowlf. Kermit watched them go, a suspicion forming in his head.

 _Well, I'll be darned,_ he thought.

Then the crowd swarmed the stage, congratulating him, and it was a long while before order could be restored.


	36. Chapter 36

The doorbell rang. "Oh! Oh! Oh, Kermiiiiiee! Could you get that, and if it's the caterers, get them started in the kitchen?"

Kermit frowned, turning away from the tall windows, where the bright Saturday afternoon light promised a clear night for the Newsman's official welcome-home at the Frogs'. "Caterers? Piggy, I thought we agreed this was going to be a casual party!"

His beloved swept past in one of her favorite pink gowns. "Well it _is!_ I did _not_ order the caviar this time!" She flounced upstairs. With a sigh, Kermit answered the door.

"Are we early, or is the food here yet?" Rizzo asked. Several rats tromped inside with him, looking around curiously.

"You're early," Kermit told him.

"Ah, c'mon guys. We oughta go make sure dey have enough mixers for da bar," Rizzo said. Kermit shook his head, not sure whether he should be more dismayed about the rats already arriving or that they knew where the wet bar was. Before he could close the door, a dilapidated pickup coughed to a halt in front of the townhouse, and Scooter and Fozzie unloaded boxes from the bed, followed up the stairs by Beauregard with a long crate.

"Uh, hi, guys," Kermit greeted them. "What's…what's all this?"

"Decorations! We got tiki torches, and streamers, and balloons!" Scooter replied happily. Kermit looked from one of them to another as they trooped through the foyer, heading for the rear patio.

"Tiki torches?" He didn't think Piggy was going to be terribly pleased with open flames around some of the guests.

"Oh, yeah! I got the extra-flamey kind! They were having a sale!" Beau told him, patting the long crate. Crazy Harry scuttled through on Beau's heels, giggling madly.

"Yeeesh," Kermit muttered. He followed them out to the rear of the townhouse, where they set down the various boxes on the patterned brick patio. Kermit looked around the landscaped garden, wondering just how many of Piggy's perfectly manicured flowerbeds he'd have to replace after the party.

Scooter took charge immediately. "Beauregard, you set up the helium tank over there and start getting the balloons blown up!"

"Right!"

"Fozzie, can you give me a hand with the streamers?"

"Check!"

Kermit nodded at them. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. He'd asked Clifford to DJ, and the former show host was setting up his mixing table and placing speakers with an eye to sound containment so the neighbors wouldn't have cause to complain…hopefully. The Electric Mayhem had also offered to play a set or two, though Kermit had asked them to keep it mellow, and to keep Animal away from the cream-soda fountain Piggy wanted flowing on a table next to the food. Nodding at them all as they busied themselves making the back patio and yard look festive, Kermit went back inside just in time to hear the doorbell again.

Rizzo beat him to it; Kermit found him greeting Pepe. "About time! Did you remember the hot wings?"

"Si, si, we have the spicy wingers, okay? And the pizza rolls, and the crab cakes, and those little creampuff thingies Piggy likes."

"Pepe? Uh…that's nice of you to bring food, but we already contracted with some caterers," Kermit said.

"Si, si, I am with the catering, okay? The Minella Brothers, okay, they have like the best toe foods in town!" The king prawn strode in confidently, calling over his shoulder, "This way, amigos!"

Rizzo shuddered. "Toe foods?"

"Uh…no, no, you see, Pepe, Miss Piggy usually uses her favorite chefs, the Ruby Slippers, and –"

"Oh, si, so I canceled it for you, Kermins. They are _way_ too expensives, okay?" Pepe stood aside, looking proudly at three large monkeys carrying covered trays of food through the open door.

"Uh…er…" Piggy was _not_ going to be happy. "You _canceled_ them?"

"Kermins!" The prawn took his flipper conspiratorially. "For what you paids, this gets you _mucho_ foods! And it is all handmade!" Something fell off a tray; the monkey carrying it snatched the fallen item off the floor and stuffed it into his cheeks, chewing as he continued along. "Uh…so to speak." He patted Kermit's arm. "Trust me. This is gonna be _way_ better! Where do you want us to set up?"

"Uh…table. Patio," Kermit sighed, pointing. As soon as the monkeys were out of sight, he went into his study, picked up the phone, checked the speed-dial list, and hit a number. "Hello? Gourmet-in-a-Hurry? Yes, I need to place an order. Uh…well, if you could deliver it _now_ that would be ideal…"

He suddenly noticed Rhonda at his elbow. "Kermit? I think you better go out back. Pepe got caught in the Jacuzzi jets and now he can't get out of the water." She sighed, shaking her head in disgust. "Just keeps zooming back and forth, screaming something about 'not the deep fryer!'"

"Eeesh," Kermit groaned. He handed her the phone. "Classy, okay?"

"Classy, got it," she agreed, and he ran for the back yard. To the food service, she said, "Hello? Yeah. I'm, uh…I'm the designated party planner. Uh-huh. Yeah…do you guys have those cute little cheese puffs with the olives stuffed in 'em? Great. We'll take five dozen…"

Gina walked into the bedroom, a towel around her body, to find Newsie sitting in his boxers on the bed and holding up the black-on-gray tie and the maroon tie in either hand, frowning. He looked up at her. "Which one do you think?"

"Hmmm. I'd put the maroon with the brown-and-burgundy suit," Gina suggested. She sat down next to him, handing him another towel. "Would you help dry my hair off? I'm having trouble reaching up."

"Oh, sure," he agreed, immediately setting the ties aside and gently covering her wet hair with the dry towel. These little tasks were quite pleasant, actually. As he carefully pressed the water from individual locks, methodically working through all of her hair, Gina sighed and lay back until her head was in his lap and he had a good view of her entire body. She closed her eyes, smiling, as he gently continued. Slowly, she unwrapped the towel from her midsection. "Uhm," he gulped, discomfited. Gina giggled, teasing him, languidly flopping one end of the towel open and closed over herself. She felt him shifting uncomfortably, and finally he growled, "Gina."

"Hmmm?" She opened her eyes slightly, smiling at him.

"Do you want me to finish drying your hair or not?"

"Hmmm. Not!" Abruptly she threw open both ends of the towel, and he jumped, startled. She looked up into his face, loving the deep blush spreading across his cheeks. "You're adorable. Do you know that?"

"Ahem. So you keep telling me."

"Do you know what I love most about you?"

"Uh…no?"

"You're really easy to fluster."

"That isn't fair," Newsie protested. "I…I was thinking about trying to look good for you tonight, and suddenly you're in here, just out of the shower, and then suddenly you're…er…"

"I'm what?"

"Uh…"

Gina threw back her head, laughing. "You can't even say it!"

He gulped, and although he could feel himself turning red, he murmured to her, "No…but I can _appreciate_ it…"

"Oh? Show me."

Some time later, laying breathless in her arms, Newsie thought he must be the luckiest Muppet alive, News Flash injuries or not. She stroked his mussed hair, and kissed his forehead, and whispered, "Thank you, Newsie."

He wasn't sure what prompted his confession; maybe it was how she'd held him. Maybe it was how she'd called his nickname out a little while ago. Maybe it was the soft touch of her fingers on his oft-bruised head right now. Whatever caused it, he took a breath and whispered, "Aloysius."

She opened her eyes, gazing into his. Trying to get enough strength back to speak clearly, Newsie explained hesitantly, "My name…my name wasn't originally Newsman. I just…adopted that. In college. My…my mother named me after both of her grandfathers. I've always hated the name. I haven't gone by it since I landed my first news job."

"So what did it used to be?" Gina asked softly, and he was infinitely grateful she didn't ask the question in the present tense. _Used to be._ She understood. She continued to hold his waist with one hand and to stroke his hair with the other, which he found amazingly soothing.

"Aloysius Ambrosius Crimp." He blushed. "Please don't tell anyone."

"I'll trade you," she offered.

He blinked, confused. "Huh?"

"I'll keep your former name safe if you'll keep mine. I was named after my Grandmama Angie and some uncle from the old country."

"Gina is short for…?"

"Angelina. I didn't want to be another Angie. Angelina Vaarcek Broucek." She smiled at him. "Try finding even two people who can pronounce it _and_ spell it; it's either one or the other!" He laughed weakly, relieved she wasn't mocking him. She pulled him up gently so she could kiss his lips; he shifted over onto the mattress, mindful of her healing ribs. "Thank you for telling me. I was curious how you pronounced it. Ah- _loy_ -zhuss."

"Right," he said, then his eyes widened. "Wait. What? How did you –"

"It's on your bachelor's degree. You had it hanging on your bedroom wall, oh Well-Educated Journalist."

Astounded, he stared at her. "All this time? Since then? You knew?" She shrugged, smiling at him, then pulled him close for another kiss. Newsie couldn't focus on it. "Why…why didn't you say anything?"

"Obviously you didn't go by it anymore. I figured if you wanted to, you'd tell me eventually." Gina smiled, then suddenly winced.

"Are you hurt? Did I—"

"No, no." Gina sighed, looking up at the old shawl which had pulled him from certain sucking doom, pinned back in its place on the wall above the bed. "Um. Newsie…my Grandmama Angie met you."

"What?" This was too many strange revelations at once. Newsie sat up, pulling the sheet over himself, feeling vulnerable. "No, Gina, I don't recall anyone looking like you, and I do have a good memory…"

"Yes, you do. But she didn't look much like me. She was very short, for one thing, and my red hair comes from my father's side of the family. Grandmama Angie was my mother's mother. I don't know how long ago this would've been."

Newsie shook his head. "No, no, the only other Gypsy I recall ever meeting was that horrible old woman who showed up one night and put a curse on the Muppet Show!" Anger flashed through him as he remembered the insulting old lady, and how she'd caused all manner of small disasters before everyone had started turning Swedish. Well, almost everyone… "Gina, that couldn't have been your grandmother! That woman was caustic, and brash, and she took money from Statler and Waldorf to put a curse on us!"

Gina's expression twisted up. "Uh. What did she look like?"

He thought about it. Good grief, he hadn't had reason to bring forth that particular humiliating memory in years! "Er…about my height, dark curly hair, dark eyes; she wore lots of jewelry and a large shawl…"

Both of them looked at the shawl pinned above them.

Newsie's jaw fell open. Gina looked from him to the shawl, then started giggling madly. The giggles turned to outright laughter, and she lay there shaking helplessly with mirth. Newsie blushed deeply. "That… _that_ was your grandmother? The woman who raised you? Who…who taught you all that Gypsy lore?"

"She never could resist duping the _gadjo,"_ Gina choked out between howls of laughter. "Especially paying ones!"

"I don't believe this," Newsie muttered. "Do you know what she called me?"

"Uh…I have a pretty good idea, yeah." Trying to calm down, Gina thought of her last dream-visit with her crusty old grandmother, and burst into fresh laughter.

Newsie scowled, embarrassed, but then Gina sat up, and gathered him into her arms, and kissed him. "Look, whatever she said to you, just ignore it. She liked baiting people." Gina looked into Newsie's eyes, saw the hurt there, and sighed. She kissed him again on the nose. "For what it's worth, she told me you have a good heart. That's high praise from her, believe me."

"When did she tell you that?"

"The night you ran away."

"I thought you said she was dead!"

"She died eight years ago, yes."

"But…but…"

"Newsie, do you trust me?"

He stared at her, swallowed hard, and held her tight. "Yes."

"Okay." Gina took a deep breath, and began: "In my family tree, there's a history of some of us, especially the women, having certain gifts…"

He listened without interrupting, trying to accept all of it, until she told him of the tradeoff she'd made for him. He stopped her there. "Gina…you gave up your gift? Your…your inheritance?"

She shrugged. "Your lab boys said it was the only way it would work." She toyed with the copper necklace still around her neck; he'd begun to be used to seeing it there.

"Gina, no…" Pained, Newsie took her hands in his.

She stared hard at him, then nodded. "Worth it."

He gulped, feeling horribly guilty. "How can you say that? That's…that's an amazing talent, to be able to know what's going to happen next!"

"Well, I was never as good at it as she was. It didn't work all the time."

"But – but – no! How could you just…shut that off? _Why_ would you?" He shook his head. "If I had a gift like that, I'd never…"

"You do, Newsie. You already do. Our energies are too similar, remember?"

He stared at her, only realizing what she meant after a moment's confused thought. "You mean that energy thing Bunsen kept talking about? The…whatever it is that makes things happen to me during my reports? That's more of a curse than a gift!"

"But look what you did with it! You deliberately invoked that _curse,_ as you call it, to bring about one heck of a happy ending for your theatre. For your friends." Gina smiled, stroking both his cheeks with her fingertips. "Just think what you could do with that! If you're careful about what you say…you could make it work _for_ you. You could have anything you wanted."

"All I want is you," he said earnestly.

They gazed at one another a long moment. Then she took hold of his waist and pulled him over. He swallowed dryly, noticing the sun beginning to set from the angle of light through the windowshade. "We'll be late," he whispered to her, not terribly concerned about it.

"I'm sure they can start without us," she murmured in reply.

"I love you," he told her, kissing her mostly-faded bruises very gently, wishing he could simply kiss it all better for her.

"And I love you, my sweet Muppet Newsman."

A while later, she repeated his given name over and over, her arms wrapped around his waist. "Aloysius…my Aloysius…"

Newsie discovered he didn't mind at all.

In a landfill in New Jersey, Billy Lee Boomer thought he heard something odd coming from the top of the most recently dumped pile of trash. He waded over to it, his galoshes sinking a few inches into the mushy loam of kitchen scraps and office garbage with every step. One of the compressed squares of trash off to the side of the larger pile shook, and a muffled voice yelled from inside it.

"Gollllly," Billy said, amazed. He rapped on the densely packed trash cube with his gloved knuckles. "Uh...hello? Is there someone in there? Hello?"

More shrieking sounded from within the trash. "Hang on, I'll try an' get ya out!" Billy shouted, hoping whomever it was would hear him. He poked his trash-snagging pole sharply into the cube, working it back and forth. Small pieces began to crumble off. The cube kept shaking. Well, who could blame whoever it was for being upset? Being trapped in a bunch of trash that had been squished into a tiny cube must be horrible for anyone, Billy mused, continuing to poke and prod until he could gain some leverage. He worked the pole back and forth, trash coming unstuck from other trash, until finally the whole cube fell apart.

A scrawny, short, pale-skinned man stood on wobbly legs, gasping, freed from the trash prison. "Gowwwwllly! How'd you get in there?" Billy asked, astounded.

"Some actor with freedom-of-the-press issues tossed me into one'a those giant trash bins and I couldn't get out," the short guy said, shakily resettling a bent pair of round shades on his face. "Who the heck are you?"

"Why, I'm Billy Lee Boomer! This here's my friends Baxter and Buttercup. Say howdy, fellas," the hick in a gray uniform coverall said, gesturing to a pair of bored-looking seagulls sitting atop another trashpile.

"Where am I?"

"Well, heck! Seems funny you not knowin' that, since all this is trash from you city folks! You're in the Shiny Time Development Park. Part of the Fiama Company's lots," the hick said brightly, going back to stabbing the slowly shifting trash-mound and putting things in a sack slung over one of his shoulders.

"Development park? _This_ is a development?" Scribbler glared around at the trash…mountains of it as far as he could see in every direction.

"Yup, well, it's gonna be. New condos an' schools an' all that!" The bumpkin grinned at Scribbler. "Well, I sure am glad you're all right, mister, but if y'all will excuse me, I gotta get back to my job here." He shook his head. "Y'all city folk throw away so much recyclable stuff! I'm out here ever' day findin' things to reuse!"

"All right? _All right?"_ Scribbler shook, boiling over. "I am _not_ all right! I just spent _three days_ in a trashpile, and got locked in a dumpster, and thrown into a masher, and squashed into a freakin' trash cube! I am _not all right!"_

The bumpkin stared at him a moment, then shrugged. "Well, I'm right sorry 'bout that, but I have to get back to work. See, they pay me by the can. Walk that way, oh, about three hours, and you'll come to the exit." The hick pointed toward the setting sun, and continued on his way.

Scribbler swung his fists at nothing. "That hypocrite actor! Always talking about anti-terrorism! I'd certainly call _this_ an act of terror! I'll – I'll give him such a bad story he'll have to go back to waiting tables!" The reason he'd been taking pictures outside the snazzy hotel in the first place came back to him. "This is all the Muppets' fault! If it wasn't for their stupid auction I wouldn't even be out here in no-man's-landfill! Why, I'll write the worst story they've ever seen! I'll…I'll link them to Al-Quaeda, and the Teamsters, and the Committee to Ban Lime Jell-O! And especially that arrogant jerk Newsie! Man, I'll…I'll…" He trailed off as he realized the two seagulls were still sitting there staring at him. _"What?"_ he yelled at them.

One seagull sighed. "Dude, give it a rest," it said.

Stunned, Scribbler looked at the other one. It simply yawned.

 _Finis._


End file.
